


A Little Of What You Fancy

by Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Cats, Dwarves, Elves, Fluff, Gen, Grey Havens, Hobbits, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Ithilien, Marriage, Mordor, Moria | Khazad-dûm, Mpreg, Poetry, Rivendell | Imladris
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-23 12:38:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 64
Words: 47,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6116740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley/pseuds/Elwen_of_the_hidden_valley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is where I'm going to post my shorter pieces from the Tolkien universe.  Drabbles are elsewhere.  These are longer scenes but ones not long enough to justify posting them individually.  They're what you could call coffee time pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not-for-profit fanfiction based upon the works of JRR Tolkien and Peter Jackson. I make no claims to own the characters, events or settings. I'm just writing between the lines of books and movies.

FIRESIDE TALE

They say this was elvish land once. Hollin, it’s called on the maps but folks round here ain’t much into maps . . . too busy scratching life out o’ this cursed thin land. Course, some say fair folk never lived here, even that there weren’t no fair folk . . . that they’re some fireside tale for a winter’s eve.

‘Tis a while since we’ve had strangers here and these surely live up to the name. The old man and the scruffy fellow look plain enough, though there’s a watching air about ‘em. And we’ve had the odd dwarf tradin’ in market afore, but them children with the old eyes make me shudder. Then there’s that big man with the grand clothes, proud as a king he is and an odd one even among them. Them horse lords yonder side the mountains don’t dress that fancy. And there’s the ironmongery on ‘em all. They’re geared up for trouble. Whether giving or getting ain’t mine to know.

But ‘tis the other that’s brought a hush to market. Tall and pale as a silver birch in starlight he is. Clear and sharp as a winter moon but soft as mornin’ mist in summer. Fireside tale a walkin’.

END


	2. Hobbit Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fellow fanfic writers will 'get' this one. ;)

Elrohir’s flawless brows drew up as he surveyed the prone form of his twin upon the bedroom floor. “What ever are you doing, Elladan?”

Elladan’s bottom rose as he backed out from under the huge bed, dustpan and brush in hand. He looked a little dishevelled, dark hair floating about his face. “Ada told me to clean out Frodo’s room, now that the Fellowship have moved on.”

“Why you?”

Elladan grimaced. “Don’t ask. It’s a long story.”

“And why were you under the bed?”

Elladan waved the dustpan at his brother. It was filled with small and large balls of grey hairy matter and Elrohir stepped back in confusion. “What in all of Middle earth is that?”

“It’s all those woollen blankets we used on Frodo’s bed. Not to mention the pillows and down filled quilts.” He grinned. “This . . . my dear brother . . . is hobbit fluff.”


	3. Hold!

HOLD!

“Hold!” The word flies from his lips before I can even draw breath to shout it. And my men obey him without question. Who is this bedraggled man who can command elves, dwarves and men? This dirty youth who even has my sister daughter besotted. 

He bowed his knee to me outside the Hall but he does not talk to me as subject to king but as my equal. And yet . . . I find myself listening to him . . . as an equal. Oh, I tried to put him down once . . . but my head told me that there was some wisdom in his words, even as my pride spoke out. I look out upon the carapaced swarm of our enemy and see the truth in his warning now. This can only be described as “open war”. And we are trapped here, outnumbered, under provisioned and with our best fighting force leagues away . . . unless Gandalf is able to keep his word. I doubt that he will. Even a wizard has some limitations . . . he cannot lift an army from one part of Middle-earth to another in the blink of an eye. No . . . we must make do with what we have.

Even there, Aragorn has had some influence. The Deeping wall now boasts a troop of elven archers. It is strange to see a lank haired, dirty young man commanding these tall, silent, folk as though he were one of them. And their leader, Haldir, accepts him as his commander . . . almost as he would a king. He has the air of a king . . . but of what is he king?

They tell me that he said he would die as one of us if necessary. I hope it will not come to that . . . but our enemy carpets the ground from cliff to cliff across the valley before us, lightening flaring off their wet armour. He has earned the respect of my men with that comment. He could have fled . . . I think the elf was considering it. But he stayed. And because he stayed, so did the elf and the dwarf. Do my people still trust me in the same way? I am no longer sure. 

His companions tell me that Aragorn lived in Rivendell for many years. That elven influence would give him a certain confidence in his manner . . . but there is something more . . . a fire that is not of the elves . . . they are all ice and glass. He has a passion about him and strength of soul that I lost long ago. Where did I lose that flame?

That is why Saruman and Grima found it so easy to overcome me I think. I have lost that passion. But it burns strong in him, even though he tries to hide it. He holds it in check, in deference to me . . . but. My son is gone . . . but my people will be safe in Aragorn’s hands . . . if I should die here.

There is the roar . . . they come.

“Give them a volley!”

THE END


	4. Lifesong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What made Legolas decide it was time to leave Middle earth?

LIFESONG

Ithilien was not so far away, after all. And something had been calling to him for many days now . . . a call even stronger than the gulls that sometimes rode the thermals inland from the coast.

His horse skittered nervously on the arid ground, sensing the history of this place, and Legolas laid a calming hand upon the pale grey neck. “Peace, Rathan. We shall not stay long.”

The elf scanned the ground about the huge shattered gates but found only ruin and ash. So now he turned his attention inward, listening. Through the still loud jangle of discord his keen ear picked out another sound. Fragile as gossamer on a summer’s morning it flickered in his mind and he urged the horse towards it.

Horse and rider had almost crossed the threshold when Legolas drew rein. Landing lightly upon the blasted earth, clear blue elven eyes turned to the corner of the gates, where shadow shielded the ground from sun’s full glare. His smile returning, he knelt in wonder.

Tiny, heart shaped leaves of emerald green paired themselves up a slender, white furred stem. And at the apex of this wonder one pale pink crown of petals nodded gently at him. Legolas caressed a single leaf, hearing the music respond, growing bright and loud beneath his touch.

Then another voice called and he glanced up, to see pale wings against a blue sky, impossibly far inland. He raised a hand in acknowledgement.

“Aye. It is indeed time to leave.”


	5. Presents

“Well now. And isn’t this nice. It’s a long time since we’ve shared a birthday party, Frodo my lad.” Bilbo beamed at his nephew across the hearth.

The five hobbits sat contentedly before the fire in Bilbo’s small room, having partaken of a veritable feast.

Frodo took a sip of his wine and smiled. It had almost felt normal today. This was not the Shire, but there was a peace in Rivendell that calmed and soothed. “It seems a very long time, Bilbo. I’m so glad we were back in time.”

The elder hobbit blinked and sat up straighter in his chair. “Bless me. I forgot all about your presents, lads. We can’t have a birthday without presents. Sam . . . would you be so good as to look in that chest at the foot of my bed. There should be some parcels in there with all your names on them.”

Pippin was up before Sam. “I’ll help you.” The comment brought a laugh to everyone’s lips.

“Pippin! In some ways you never grow up,” snorted Merry as the other two collected packages and returned to the circle of chairs drawn up before the fireplace. If Frodo’s face grew distant at the comment, the others said nothing.

“Well, hand them around lads. I had them made especially for you all by the elves. So I know they’ll fit.”

There was a general ripping of paper and the fire blazed merrily as it was added to the fuel. Then there was a moment of silence as four faces gazed in wonder at the beautiful garments before them. Each had been gifted a waistcoat.

Sam’s was of a golden brown velvet, almost the same hue as his eyes . . . the colour of beech trees in a fine autumn. Pippin’s was of a deep green wool, lined with finest silk and Merry blinked in wonder at the mustard silk that had been quilted in stitches so fine that he would need one of Bilbo’s magnifying glasses to separate them. 

There was a small sob and all turned to stare at Frodo. In his lap was a silver-grey waistcoat of the most exquisite figured silk, with two rows of silver buttons.

Bilbo leaned forward in concern. “Whatever is it, lad? Don’t you like it?”

Frodo shook his head and wiped away a tear with his shirtsleeve. “I love it with all my heart, Bilbo dear. But I have no presents to give you all. I’m sorry. I’m afraid there wasn’t time.”

“Well, I don’t know about the others, but I have my present,” Bilbo replied, his vague grey-blue eyes regaining some of their old light. “I have you safely back at my side. That is the best present you could give me and I will take no other . . . save perhaps one. Will you not give your old uncle a birthday hug?”

“Oh, Bilbo . . .” Within a heartbeat Frodo was on his knees at Bilbo’s side, his arms wrapped strongly about the ancient frame and his tearful face buried in his uncle’s shoulder.

END


	6. Puddles

Pippin tossed the stone as far as he could, the plunk of it's landing lost in the sound of breakers on the shore beyond the harbour. He looked at the tall white ship and wondered how deep the water needed to be to accommodate it. Much deeper than the Brandywine, he reckoned. He started as a hand landed on his shoulder and Frodo's whisper came in his ear.

"Careful cousin. Remember what happened last time you threw a stone into a puddle." There was a small smile on Frodo's lips but a sparkle of tears in those large blue eyes and Pippin felt very small, despite the fact that he was now looking down at his cousin. Frodo grunted as he was suddenly enveloped in a huge hug but it took only a split second for him to return it.

When he could recover his breath enough to speak, Frodo turned his cheek to rest upon Pip's chest and they both looked out at the wide grey expanse of water. 

"Do you remember when we used to jump puddles, Pippin?"

Pip sniffed and blinked away one of the tears that rolled, unchecked, down his cheeks. "You always found the biggest ones and I was so small. That was mean of you, you know? You always cleared them and I always ended up wet." He glanced down at the dark curls resting against him. "But this is no puddle, Frodo. However tall I grow I will never be able to jump this one."

Frodo patted his cousin's chest gently. "Learning that there are some things that are just too big for you is an important lesson in life. I had hoped that you would learn it young, while the only harm you could come to would be splashed breeches."

Pippin snorted. "You didn't have to go back and face Pervinca. I'm sure that's why I was so small when I was younger. I spent so much time in hot baths that as fast as I grew inches Pervinca scrubbed them off." 

Leaning away from him, Frodo looked up into those green-gold eyes. "Well, I think Treebeard took care of that for you. But there's more to growing up than inches, you know." Frodo turned back to the shifting water before them. "I'm just sorry that you had to grow up too soon. That was one puddle I shouldn't have led you into."

The arms wrapped about him grew tighter. "It was no-one's fault, Frodo. And you didn't lead me into it . . . I chose to come with you . . . we all did."

"Why did you come with me, Pip?"

The chest beneath his ear began to shake and Frodo heard his cousin's light giggle bubble up for Pippin's bright soul could not be restrained too long in tears. "Because I love you, you silly goose." Strong hands pushed Frodo away and they faced each other square on. "And that's also why I'm letting you go without me now instead of begging you to stay."

For the first time in what seemed like an age, Pippin saw pale lips curl upwards and there was a flash of the old Frodo in those azure eyes. One, three-fingered hand came to rest upon Pip's shoulder.

"You don't need to jump this puddle, Pip. You've learned to take your own path and for that, at least, I'm glad. Have a full and happy life, cousin. And teach your children to jump puddles while they are still young enough to run home to their mama and a hot bath."

With one final, quick embrace, Frodo turned and Pippin stood still, watching him walk away.

 

THE END


	7. Robes

“It is very simple, Frodo.” Elrond lowered his long body into the chair, giving a deft flick with both wrists. His body sat, robes floating down about his legs in elegant folds.

Frodo frowned . . . looking down at the voluminous court robes he had been asked to don for the feast. However hard he tried, they always ended up in a tangle under his bottom when he sat. But this was the hobbit who had climbed Mount Doom. He could do this . . . he really could.

He lowered himself into his chair, gathering the fabric in his hands and giving a large flick . . .

and sighed . . . 

as the robes, which had managed to snag on the backrest of his chair, flopped neatly over his head, rendering him totally blind.

Oh bother!

 

END


	8. The Song of Iluvatar

MORIA

A light breeze sent clouds scudding across the night sky, seeking in vain to hide bright Ithil and the stars of Elbereth, high above them. The place was silent, but for the dark whispering of a stray breath of wind that eddied about the vale, teasing coldly at their cloaks: underscored by the distant howl of wargs and overlaid with Gandalf’s voice, chanting at the doors.

His own heart sang quietly, subdued by the cold menace of the place. Soon he would be asked to enter the dwarven realm of Moria. Did Durin’s folk still live there? Legolas touched the ancient rock wall before him, straining to hear some measured drum of life beyond. Nothing. And yet he could hear Gimli’s bold strong rhythm not far distant. If there were dwarves within, should he not be able to hear them? Perhaps the depth of cold granite beneath his palms choked off their song. His long life contained no memory of such a place: he had no experience on which to call for aide.

All about him he could hear the music of his companions. Aragorn and Boromir wove an ancient harmony of war and oath. Gandalf’s melody was strong and sure. No note faltered but, as always, it was muted for he held his power leashed. The hobbits formed their own quartet of song. It rang merry and bright, although within it wove a counterpoint of fear and, somewhere below, he heard the dissonance of the Ring, now inextricably interwoven within Frodo’s soul. Legolas tore his mind away, as he found himself drawn down in to the cold metallic tones.

Slowly, as he sorted through the different harmonies, he began to find other music here. He turned from the wall and tilted his head to listen again, sending out a questioning phrase of song. From deep within the lake before him came a dark reply, but it was so quiet that he could not identify the opus that had birthed it. It chanted dark want and hunger and Legolas drew back, shuddering at its icy discord.

Suddenly a soft, strong duet insinuated itself in to his heart. It was ancient and carolled of sun and life and growth. The wood elf followed the light theme and found himself standing before the gates once more. His song spiralled up in relief as he stood between two ancient holly trees, their shapes distorted by abuse and age. In his preoccupation with the dark of Moria he had not heard their soft melody: had thought them long dead.

Legolas stepped towards the twisted trunk of the nearest and reached out to stroke the warm wood, sighing with relief as he was accepted, and moved closer, to lean his full weight against the ancient sentinel. Their symphony enfolded him. Feeling his distress, they sought to sooth his anxious thoughts and wrapped him round with soft melody of comfort, as a mother singing lullaby to a fretful child.

He stood, enraptured, as their slow measure told of days long past, when the doors of Durin’s halls stood wide to the world. They sang of sunlight on many fair folk, elf and dwarf, passing to and fro between their welcoming and outstretched boughs. Then the music slipped in to a melancholy minor as they intoned of darkness that had descended slowly, the slamming shut of the doors and the growing foulness of the deep lake that lapped in oily discord about the borders of their deep roots. Now, for many turnings of the seasons, theirs had been but a two-part harmony. No eldar came to share their song and tell of far off lands and great deeds.

Tears slipped from the prince’s eyes and fell in silent homage to their lonely vigil. He reached down within his soul and began to weave his symphony. He sang of the sun on a thousand green leaves in the summer of his forest home and wove in the deep strong harmony he had found in Imladris. Next, he blended in the light trill of bird song at evening; the delicate tones of wind swept gorse and heather from the mountain passes and drew a chord from each of his companions. Carefully he orchestrated, setting counterpoint and harmony, melody and rhythm, until he was satisfied. When all was arranged he offered it up to the ancient holly beneath his fingers.

His heart leapt as they accepted his creation; weaving in their own soft melody and pulling in the moon and stars to swell the music until it filled the wood elf’s soul and would have swept him away, if the cold grate of stone on stone had not pulled him back.

And Durin’s doors swung slowly open to swallow him in silence. 

END

 

ITHILIEN

Legolas could feel the wrongness of the place as he entered the clearing. Something was in hideous pain. Finally tracing the thread of agony he reached out, wrapping tendrils of comfort in soft melody and trying to soothe the raw hurt emanating from the ancient oak before him.

The orcs had taken a perverse delight in torturing it over a long period of time. Legolas staggered under the weight of the images pouring in to his mind as he drew closer. They had cut it first; leering as the fragrant sap bled from long slashes carved in to the bark. Then they had moved on, pealing back strips to leave deep, open wounds down its side. They never took enough to put it out of its misery, however. Long shreds had been left at various places around the trunk to that it could not die, only endure. It had endured their attentions for forty years. Old wounds had healed but always there were fresh ones and with each new hurt its song faded, changed, faltered.

Tears flowed freely down the elven prince’s face as he stood before the ruined giant. It had been mighty and proud once: had sung its strong melody to countless generations of men, although they had not heard it. Now it reached stunted branches to the sky in supplication for strength, whether it be strength to live or to die, it no longer cared. All song was gone: the only sound it was capable of, the wailing exclamations of its pain.

Legolas waited for a moment; loath to set his hand upon the ravaged flesh for fear that the anguish emanating from it would overwhelm him. Letting his own melody build within he searched for others to weave in to harmony. Grass and flower, leaf and berry offered up their song to his questing mind and he drew them to him, binding them in healing rhapsody. Taking one last step he leaned against the hurt, wrapping the scarred trunk within the circle of his arms and setting his cheek against the rough bark. Tenderly, he offered up his song, directing it to fill the voids within the oak, entwining it around the weakened soul, strengthening, smoothing away the pain and bitterness.

Slowly, a new thread of song was added to the symphony, its bass tones forming a platform for the lighter notes of elf and glade. Haltingly at first, the oak rejoined its neighbours, the music swelling as they drew it up, welcoming it back into their fellowship.

Legolas pulled away, his thread of song carefully un-entwining from the ecstasy of sound around him. The elf danced lightly to the centre of the glade, threw wide his arms and spun around in undisguised delight, his eyes shining and hair gleaming gold in the sunlight. Gimli stared in awe struck wonder as all about the clearing leaves unfurled on branches long thought dead, blossom filled the air with heady scents, flowers bloomed amid grass now lush and green, birds burst in to song and silver elven laughter floated on the sparkling morning air of Ithilien.

THE END


	9. THE WARMTH OF FRIENDSHIP

Seeing Strider’s costume at the exhibition in Boston inspired this little scene. At his back, wrapped carefully in a leather cover, was rolled a soft, thick, fluffy, pale brown wool blanket. It looked a little too cuddly for the ranger and I wondered whether it had been a gift to him and what it would feel like.

 

Darkness helped. The grey shadowy figures that haunted his eyes by day were swallowed by the coming of night. Would that those which haunted his mind would do the same . . . but he was grateful for any small mercy.

From out of the icy darkness came two embers of warmth at his waist and his stomach lurched as, for a moment, he flew before being settled against more comforting heat. He was aware of strong arms cradling him, a heartbeat against his own . . . its strong rhythm of life calling him back . . . re-awakening senses, frozen for so long.

Touch . . . his right hand resting against scuffed leather. Smell . . . woodsmoke and sweat. Sound . . . the strong and even inhale and exhale of breath above his head. Sight . . . faded blue linen framed by muddied moss green leather. Taste . . . but here there was only the metallic taste of poison in his mouth. 

Words drifted around him. 

“ . . . seems worse . . . How . . . help?” His mind tried to grasp meaning and recognition of the voice but waves of frigid pain forbade it.

A rumble against his ear, resting warm against firm muscle. These words he felt, rather than heard. “He needs heat, within and without. Build a fire and warm some of that broth from Sam’s flask.”

Warmth. The heat against his side was only a tantalising reminder of what that felt like. He tried to curl closer to it . . . was rewarded by arms gripping him closer.

“Merry . . . please remove the blanket from my bedroll. It is thicker than his own.”

“ . . . never felt . . . so soft.”

“It was woven by the elves. A gift upon my coming of age.”

Sudden movement kindled icy flame in his veins and he was helpless to prevent the cry that passed his lips. He bit down on his lip . . . desperate to conceal the changes there . . . his shriek echoing too closely the chilling call of his pursuers.

“ . . . sorry. Just a moment and you will feel better.” The voice tried to soothe but he hardly heard it above his own whimpers of despair. 

It would all end soon. The agonising chill that had started in his shoulder was now spreading. He could almost feel the tiny crystals of ice forming in his blood, could hear his heart labour to push the sluggish liquid about his failing body. He wanted to cry like a child who has tumbled down a step, but his tears were frozen, his throat thick with a stranger’s voice.

Softness.

The sensation of being enfolded in soft fabric almost made him gasp as it cut through his anguish. A fresh scent brushed gently at his nostrils and he clutched at this new comfort, inhaling again. 

The heady scent of summer roses at sunset. The sharp clear spike of lavender teased by a breeze. The sugar sweet perfume of honeysuckle twined about a doorway. The hope filled exhalation of evergreens bedecking a warm room in the depths of winter. All these underpinned and blended with his carer’s woodsy smell and, for the moment, pain was held at bay.

“ . . . ready, Mr Strider . . . not too hot.”

The rim of a cup was pressed to his lips and he opened to accept the heat its contents promised. And finally the metallic taint was washed from his mouth by the taste of coney and mushroom, laced lightly with herbs. He recognised Sam’s hand in the delicate blending and was surprised by that knowledge.

Sam was holding the cup to his lips. Merry had brought the blanket that now cosseted him so soothingly. Pippin sat tending the small fire only yards away and Strider held him tenderly in his lap. Frodo stirred, brushing his furred instep against the thick soft wool of Strider’s blanket, and snuggled deeper into its depths.

The shadows receded, pushed back for a time at least by love. Perhaps they would reach Rivendell in time.

END


	10. Two Gross

"Now, now, Mr Frodo. You're not well enough to go out there." Rosie tried to push Frodo back into his chair but he batted her hands away and climbed determinedly to his feet.

"You have all gone to a great deal of trouble to prepare my birthday supper. And I know that none of those you invited will refuse. I'm expected to be there." He strove to hide the quaver in his voice, not altogether successfully.

"Frodo . . . what are you doing out of your bed? You're still not strong enough after that fever." Sam hurried into the study, moving at once to slip a hand beneath his master's elbow. Frodo shook him off, somewhat querulously.

"I have to be there, Sam. It's our first big celebration and people need to know that life is getting back to normal. There are three hundred people out there Sam, all wanting something to celebrate . . . something to make them feel like hobbits again. I can't let them down." 

Frodo took one shaky step and moaned as his knees suddenly gave way. Sam had been prepared for just such an eventuality, however, and caught him up at once, swinging him into his arms like a child. For his part, Frodo gave only token resistance, finally surrendering to his body's needs. He laid his head upon Sam's sturdy shoulder and closed his eyes as he was carried back to bed.

"Don't you worry about that party. If you get three hundred hobbits together in a field with a bushel or two of food there'll be a party . . . guest of honour or no." Sam resisted the temptation to add that most of them wouldn't even notice that the guest of honour was missing. Frodo may be the saviour of Middle earth but he had kept a low profile and had withdrawn even more this past year, as his health began to fail. Even now, months later, he hardly weighed more than he had when Sam had carried him up the side of that accursed mountain.

Frodo was settled upon his bed and Sam began to undress him as Rosie ran to the kitchen to make some chamomile tea. Having conceded defeat, Frodo allowed himself to be slipped into a nightshirt and covered with warm quilts. He opened weary blue eyes as Rosie returned, smiling as Sam touched the cup of soothing tea to his lips. Frodo took a small sip and smiled.  


"Three hundred hobbits. That sounds worthy of a collective name. What shall we call a collection of three hundred hobbits, Sam?"

Sam glanced up at Rosie, unsure whether his master was simply musing or rambling with fever once more. Rosie laid a gentle hand upon Frodo's brow and smiled up at her husband. There was no sign of fever, although if Frodo did not rest she was sure there would be. Sam coaxed another mouthful of the sedative tea into his friend.

"I'm sure I don't know, sir. And anyways, there won't be three hundred because we three will be right here."

Tears began to gather in Frodo's pale blue eyes. Sam remembered when they were once the deep blue of a bright summer day. Now they were the faded blue of an old work shirt, too long in the hot sun. 

"I'm sorry, Sam. I've spoiled it for you and Rosie. You should be out there celebrating too. I will be asleep soon if Rosie has made this tea as properly, as she always does. You two should go and enjoy yourselves."

Sam continued to bend to his task of dosing Frodo, his voice brooking no further argument on the matter. "I'm not leaving you alone. I promised that I'd never leave you and I'm going to keep that promise."

Rosie sat upon the edge of the bed and stroked Frodo's hair. "And I'm not going anywhere without my husband so it looks like you're stuck with me too."

Frodo was growing drowsy . . . the tea working quickly upon his weakened frame . . . and the tears that had been threatening to spill over, dried. His lips curved into a smile.

"Two hundred and ninety seven does not sound as worthy of a collective name, somehow."

Rosie smiled back, continuing to soothe with her touch. "Aye, well, some of the Sandyman's aren't coming. I think they're keeping a low profile these days."

Those pale blue eyes rolled slowly towards her, pain evident in their depths. He had hoped that this party would be a healing time . . . a time for those who had been on opposite sides of the fence during Sharky's rule to finally set aside their differences. Perhaps it was too soon. Frodo's thoughts began to float, drifting out of his hold as the chamomile lulled him towards sleep.

"How many" He licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry despite the tea. "How many will there be?"

"Never you mind that, Frodo. Why don't you take a little nap and me and Rosie will stay with you?" Sam lowered the dark curls back into the mound of pillows; his heart squeezing in his chest as the candlelight caught a few strands of silver among the burnt chestnut locks. Too soon. Frodo should have many years of happiness before him but he was old before his time. It was not fair. But then, one of the lessons Sam had learned early was that life was not always fair. And the past two years had more than confirmed that.

Frodo blinked slowly at the ceiling. "But, how many?"

Sam sighed. Frodo was nothing if not stubborn and would likely not give in to sleep until he knew. Sam began to reckon up. There were the three of them, and then eight . . . no . . . nine of the Sandyman family. "I reckon there'll be two hundred and eighty eight. Now will you please rest, Frodo?"

Dark lashed lids fluttered shut and Sam was surprised to hear a soft chuckle from his friend. "Two hundred . . . eighty eight. How nice. Two hund . . . eight . . . Two gross . . . of hobbits."

With one last sigh Frodo drifted off into sleep, a small smile touching the corners of his pale lips.

THE END


	11. Thorns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened to Aeglos when Gil-galad died?

**Thorns**

He set the bundle upon a table, only staring at it for a long time. When his hand reached out to lift the cloth he noted its tremor and paused to clench and unclench his fist until it stopped. Finally, as he had done every year on this date, he lifted the blue cloth to display one of the few relics of his greatest friend that remained.

The shaft had long since rotted away. Orc blood could be corrosive over time and it had been soaked through in their black ichor when Elrond had retrieved it from the battle field, many days after he had buried its owner, his King. But Aeglos’ mithril blade was clean and bright, the engraving as crisp as the day it had been wrought. He had cleaned it himself, his tears annointing as he worked.

Elrond smiled, remembering how, Gil-galad had allowed him to heft it once. With the impetuosity of youth he had almost taken off his foot at his first swing. Gil-galad had laughed and sent him for lessons with the sword master, declaring that with a shorter weapon Elrond would be less likely to do harm to his friends or himself. Determined to prove himself, Elrond had become a master with the blade.

Years later, at the Siege of Barad-dur he drank his fill of fighting and death. Lance and sword were put away; replaced by lancet and scalpel. Now Elrond of Imladris wielded only healing in his strong hands. 

He stared at those hands now, turning them this way and that, and moonlight glanced blue upon Gil-galad’s parting gift; both power and shackle. One day he hoped that it too would become some cloth wrapped relic; that he would hug his dearest friend close once more before the world drew its final breath.

END


	12. She Wore Blue Velvet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he packs for his journey to the Havens Elrond discovers a forgotten garment.

Celebrian had taken little with her to the Havens. When he could bring himself to open her wardrobe some time later he found few gaps. Her wedding gown was missing and perhaps one or two others. The dark blue cloak she had left and Elrond wept upon finding it. The day before her departure harsh words had been spoken. All was mended by the time he handed her onto the ship, but in their pain the cloak had been abandoned.

Now he reverently laid it upon their marital bed, running a hand over the finely embossed velvet. It no longer smelled of Celebrian but rather of the rose petals it had been packed in so carefully for many years. 

The cloak was his wedding gift to her. Elrond had fastened it about Celebrian’s naked shoulders, late upon their nuptual eve, as he led her onto the balcony to watch Earendil sail toward the dawn. Even now his arms remembered the feel of his new wife’s form beneath the heavy fabric as she nestled against him, head resting comfortably upon his shoulder.

Something glistened in the moonlight and Elrond bent to rescue one long silver hair from the clasp. He stretched it gently between his hands, measuring its length. Celebrian’s hair had been her glory, falling arrow straight well beyond her waist in a star kissed fall, and he remembered well the scent and weight of it as it fell about his face; the silken strength of it as he wrapped it about his fists.

He wound the single strand about the clasp once more, admiring now, as he had then, the silver against midnight blue.

Horses were assembling below his bacony and Elrond turned to examine his belongings. Like Celebrian before him there was little he needed to take to the Havens; just a harp and one small chest. 

Removing a wine red robe from the chest, he replaced it with the blue cloak and closed the lid.

END


	13. Last Of The Homely House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is fanfic. I don’t own Imladris. It belongs to JRR Tolkien, as interpreted by P Jackson and they should have appointed a caretaker.

A gentle breeze brushed the hilltop, combing the ruins. In truth it was hardly a hill and not much of a ruin. But it was the highest point of what had once been a very beautiful garden, topped with a fine pergola. Even now, ancient rose bushes could be seen stranded amongst brambles and ivy and, here and there, a crumbling stone figure leaned precariously at the foot of a flight of impassible, overgrown steps.

The house itself had long ago succumbed to tree root and rain. Carved wooden railings and balconies were decayed to stumps, leaving intrepid explorers clinging to the rock cliff behind them to avoid falling into the deep chasm of the valley below. Marble columns tilted, sending once finely tiled roofs sliding to their death upon delicate mosaic floors. The ruins of this ancient home were now too dangerous to enter but sunbeams revealed glimpses of finely painted walls and the shelves of what was once an extensive library. The books were long gone, whether to rot or the greedy hand of looters mattered little now.

Few travelers came here and even fewer stayed beyond sunset. Those who did said that when the stars came out pale figures, slender and graceful, walked hallways and bridges that had long ago crumbled to dust. And sometimes, when Earendil rode the night sky toward the dawn, fair music could be heard and the figures danced and sang in tongues not heard in Middle earth for many generations of man. But if one were intrepid enough to try and touch these beings it was said that they dissolved into the mist and all would be silent again.  
But a few years more, and The Last Homely House East of the Sea would slip quietly into the land of legend and fireside tale. 

The travelers turned away, two sets of grey eyes sparkling with tears. This would be their last visit to the valley.


	14. Here we go a-brambling

Primula bit back a squeak of alarm when she saw her faunt race up the path and she was at the door to greet him before he touched the handle. It was some relief to discover that the red stains all over his clothes and body were not blood, but bramble juice.

Placing her hands upon her hips Primula planted herself in the entrance and glared down at him. For his part, Frodo stared up in innocent confusion. “Hello Mama. Is it teatime?”

Primula’s eyebrows lifted. “Frodo Baggins, just look at the state of you? You’ve been down in the copse, haven’t you?”

Frodo gave her a sunny gap-toothed, red-lipped grin. “Yes. You’ll never guess what I’ve been doing.”

Primula began to see the funny side of it once the alarm faded and tried to restrain her laughter. “Oh, I think I can make a very good guess.”

When Frodo blinked in surprise she tugged at his sticky shirt sleeve, bringing his arm up to eye level. Her son’s eyes widened as he noticed his red stained fingers and he looked down in growing horror at the red stained shirt, the red stained breeches and the red stained feet. All he could manage was a subdued, “Oh.”

Primula’s chestnut curls bounced as she shook her head in exasperation. “Alright. Off with the lot while I fill the tub. Then you will climb in and scrub until you’re spotless.”

A rather sheepish Frodo stripped down to his smalls in the hallway and then followed his Ma to the kitchen, where the tub waited, along with a scrubbing brush usually reserved for laundry. 

Primula threw his clothes in a basin of cold water to soak, although she held out little hope of removing all the stains. It seemed that, until he grew out of them, her son was destined to play in pink clothes. Then she turned to watch as Frodo dutifully scrubbed, and scrubbed, and scrubbed. But there was no shifting the stains. It seemed that for a few days at least he would have pink skin to match the pink clothes.

“Frodo. Next time you go brambling ask me for something to cover your clothes. Or better yet, ask me to come with you. We could at least have had apple-bramble pie. And I suppose you will be too full to eat your tea?”

When Frodo turned huge blue eyes upon her Primula could only relent. “Oh, get along with you.” She laughed as she threw him a towel, which he caught deftly. “Go and put on your nightshirt. Then come back to the table for tea.”

Frodo did not need telling twice and his mother smiled as a pair of pink heels and a little bare bottom disappeared swiftly through the kitchen door.

And that is why Frodo Baggins spent the rest of that year wearing what his Aunt Esmeralda euphemistically referred to as his “rose-clothes” when he played out.


	15. The Master Goldsmith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own anything except the goldsmith. All the rest belongs to JRR Tolkien.

My shop has been linked with the ruling house of Gondor for generations; that being the Steward’s House of course. So I was honoured, but not surprised, to be asked to repair and clean the crown before the coronation. And what a task that was. When our new Steward opened the box I cried in shame for my own people; that such a treasure had been left to decay, unremarked. I had to set my whole workshop to restoring it and we only just managed in time for the coronation.

It seems the Steward told His Majesty of our work and it was only a few days after the celebration that I was summoned to the Citadel. The Elessar wanted something special to mark a feast today; a salt cellar for the high table. I was nervous, for Lord Denethor had been a hard taskmaster, with a temperament that could switch from ice to flame within the space of a breath. Not so The Elessar. 

The Steward, the new one that is, Lord Faramir, led me to a private chamber rather than the throne room. And the king bade me sit at table with him. That I should be invited to share bread with my king! Never had I dreamed to be granted such an honour and yet there we sat, surrounded by plates of white bread and cheese, sipping fine wine while he spoke and I drew.

A member of the fair folk and a dwarf also joined us, even the wizard for a while, and we talked the whole morning, for The Elessar wanted certain things incorporating within the design. I did not understand why at first, and the elven prince had to sketch for me the shape of the flowers, for I have never seen or heard of Niphredil. 

When I returned to my workshop the dwarf followed, offering the solution to a problem that had vexed me in the design. The waterfall, running into a river that winds about the piece from the very top to the sea at its base, was the most challenging feature. It seems that the valley where both King and Queen were raised has many waterfalls and The Elessar wished to honour his lady thus. 

I intended to try and craft it from silver but Master Gimli offered to send for one of his folk. Davin assured me that he could carve it from blue crystal and he did not lie. When I saw it, but a day since, I had to reach out to touch, so real did it seem. The gemstone was carved and polished to form waves that ranged from near invisibility to deepest blue, and seemed to change with each mood of the light.

All of my studio contributed their skills, from master craftsman to journeyman and lowly apprentice. For such a work as this we would normally toil for months, or even years, but we had scant weeks. And yet, had we taken longer I do not think we could have done better for it was made with willing hands. Ours was the first royal commission for the new House of Elessar Telcontar.

At the very top I planted the White Tree, in full blossom, symbol of our people since before their arrival in this land. Once again, it was the dwarf who assisted, sending for mithril, the true silver, to create it. Never had I worked with such a material. It felt almost alive beneath my fingers, delighting to be cast and chased. And yet, once formed, it was as hard as tempered steel. About its roots Davin carved crystal cups for salt and my apprentices created golden spoons. We had just enough time to have the handles enamelled, so they were finished with a blue cornflower. Hearing that the King weds today and who it is he weds I can understand better the imagery. It is a consequence of my work that I know many of the symbols of the ancient houses of Numenor but it was Prince Legolas who explained the rest just hours ago, for they belong to Elvenkind. He told me that this was the symbol for an elven queen of old, Idris Celebrindal, ancestress to our new Queen.

Along the banks of the river we set slender golden Athelas leaves and delicate silver Niphredil. The fine shapes of both leaves and flowers took great skill and it was not a task I dare trust to my apprentices. Poor Halin took on the job and, even now, I can see in my mind’s eye all the tiny pieces spread upon his table. At least the apprentices could help to solder them to the finished cellar or he would be working still. 

The flowers were symbol of Luthien the Fair, an ancestress of both King and Queen. It is said that our new Queen is as fair as she, although I have not yet had the pleasure of seeing her. Were it not for tales of the King using Athelas to heal those afflicted at the Pelennor I would never have considered placing it upon the cellar, for my people considered it a weed for generations. Although when I assessed it with an artists eye I had to confess that the long, slender leaf was a pleasing shape that I look forward to using again. Whether Halin would agree with me is another matter.

The ship, its sail emblazoned with the six pointed star, I knew from childrens tale. For this was the ship of Earendil the mariner, who sails the night sky still. It seems he also was ancient ancestor of both King and Queen. We are truly blessed to have the return of a royal house with such a lineage. I placed it upon the river for I wished to distinguish it from the nine ships at the cellar’s base. In these Elendil brought the men of Numenor to our shores and Davin carved crystal salt dishes to sit within each. The two which foundered the dwarf helped me to set disappearing into the crystal waves. How he achieved it I do not know and he will not reveal the secrets of his craft. I can hardly blame him for we goldsmiths hold close our own secrets, but what would I give to become his apprentice for a few years?

I would have embellished the piece further; with Elendil’s shattered sword perhaps or the ring of Barahir. But the Elessar drew his blade, Anduril, that he said was forged by elven smiths from the shards of Narsil, and told me he needed no other reminder. But he did ask me to make a small change when he saw the cellar nearly complete. There are some may find it a little disrespectful to the symbol of Gondor but the King said that when considered upon it, it was the most important part.

And then the periann from the guards said he wanted an addition to that change. Well, I knew he was a friend of the king as well as a guard, but I wasn’t about to make changes to such an important piece without the King’s approval. I sent a message to The Elessar, and when the page returned with his note I could scarce believe it. The lad said that His Majesty had laughed long and hard and the note he sent back simply said, “Do it!” I would have questioned further had it not been signed and sealed.

The Ringbearer would not pose for my pen but I believe I caught his likeness in mithril well enough. So beneath the white tree there now sits a small figure smoking a pipe, with an open picnic basket at his side. 

Now it is finished and a servant is filling the last crystal salt cups. I can hear the crowd cheering outside and a part of me regrets not being there to see my king bound to his lady. But this is my gift to them and it is enough. I must leave. The doors will open in a moment for The Elessar to escort his fair bride, our new Queen to their wedding feast.

Long may they reign in honour and love.

END


	16. Just A Little Tumble

The small figure whimpered and stirred as Elrond lifted the heavily padded leg and slipped a soft pillow beneath it. By the time the healer had draped a comforter about him Frodo’s blue eyes were fluttering open, his dark brows drawn together in pain and confusion.

“Do not try to move, Frodo. You took quite a tumble.” Elrond settled in a chair at the bedside and touched a damp cloth to Frodo’s brow. For several moments the hobbit merely took comfort in the coolness of the cloth on his fevered skin and the softness of the mattress and pillows that cradled him. 

What had happened? He remembered walking in the garden with Sam. They had found themselves at the top of a steep slope behind the house and had begun to climb down the steps to the garden below. They were too narrow for large hobbit feet and slick with damp leaves. Frodo had turned back to warn Sam about a particularly narrow one when his foot slid from under him. Sam tried to stop him but it was too late and the last thing Frodo remembered was tumbling over and over, the stone edges of the steps biting at his body.

Elrond’s grey eyes watched as Frodo re-gathered his scattered memories. “You have many bruises but there is no internal damage and the only broken bone is in your right ankle. I expect you are finding that quite painful.”

“Broken?” Frodo tried to focus more specifically upon his body . . . trying to isolate the various hurts. His ribs hurt, and he could feel bandages around his left forearm. He tried to move his right leg and cried out as pain speared up his leg from his ankle. Slamming his eyes shut, to close out any further input, he concentrated upon trying to will away the agony, forcing himself to lie still so that he could regain some of the comfort he had felt upon waking.

Through it he was aware of a slender tube slipping between his lips and a bitter taste on his tongue. Slowly . . . slowly . . . the pain subsided and he was aware of Elrond’s calm and gentle voice again.

“The tincture will ease your pain. Just lie still for a moment. Try to relax.” Cool fingers stroked his brow and that, combined with whatever the healer had just given him, began to distance the agony . . . soothing it away until it was little more than a dull ache.

Sighing, Frodo opened his eyes once more, seeking out his carer in relief. “Thank you.”

The solemn face of the elven lord softened into a smile. “You are very welcome, Little One. The tincture will make you sleepy. Rest is the best cure.”


	17. One Last Hug

“Frodo, I know you’ve got them. Let me wash your hair. It will stop the itching.” 

Getting down on hands and knees, Primula lifted the coverlet to find huge blue eyes blinking from shadows beneath the bed, tears spilling over dark lashes. 

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Poppet. Nearly every child in Brandy Hall has them. That’s why we need to wash everyone’s hair with special soap.”

Frodo flew into her arms, burying his head in her shoulder.

“What’s the matter?”

“Wanted to go . . . boat . . . you and Papa . . . after supper. Wont . . . with wet hair.”

“I’m sorry, but you don’t want to catch a chill. You can come with us tomorrow.”

“Promise?” he sniffled.

“Promise.” Primula bent to kiss his curls and thought better of it. “Let’s get these nasty things seen to.”

She gathered up her son. He was getting too big to be carried but Primula liked having him nestled in her arms. Perhaps it was time he had a baby sister or brother? She smiled. It had been a long time since she and Drogo had gone boating alone in the moonlight.

 

END


	18. A Dear Friend Remembered

I thought I saw you, today.  
In the grass, a book lay open.  
I strolled through the orchard, air warm and sun dappled,  
And I saw you there,  
Eyes intent on the page.

I thought I saw you this morning.  
On the hearth, kettle sang.  
I remembered the scrubbed kitchen table, the teapot  
And I saw you there,  
Cup enfolded within your hands.

I thought I saw you this evening.  
On your desk a pen had fallen.  
I remembered the clutter of parchment and map.  
And I saw you there,  
Frowning down at your notes.

I thought I saw you tonight  
As I stood ‘neath the new Party Tree  
I remembered the tables, the fireworks, the music.  
And I saw you there,  
Your face full of laughter and light.

I thought I saw you at sunset.  
Copper sun touched the lands distant edge.  
I remembered your tears as you stepped on the boat.  
I saw you there and I wondered  
Do you, sometimes, look back and see me?

END


	19. And The Skies Looked On

White clouds, scudding swift, ‘cross a cobalt blue sky.  
He sits ‘neath an oak, book on knee.  
Dwarves, dragons and elves float before his minds eye.  
“Why does nothing strange happen to me?”

Grey clouds float, serene, ‘cross a late autumn sky.  
He stands on a balcony, lone.  
Dark figures and pain in his memory lie.  
“Now I’m safe. Leave it here and go home.”

White sky, filled with mem’ry of late fallen snow  
Rolls, unseen, to the Ringbearers’ eye.  
Deep in cavern, lead on by a staff’s eerie glow.  
“In this place will we battle and die?”

Bright stars glow, forlorn, in nights indigo throne.  
He sits, once again, ‘neath a tree.  
Friend is dead. Here’s the test. Can he do this alone?  
“And this quest comes, at last, down to me.”

Grey sky, still and sullen. By river he stands.  
Tears fall, soft, from his shimmering eye.  
Gandalf’s’ voice, warm and sure. Ring lies, cold, in his hand.  
“I will go.  
I will try.  
Will I die?”

END


	20. Melegrist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond uses a teaching aid for Estel's history lesson

Elrond gathered Estel onto his knee and, with the carelessness of long familiarity, the youngster shuffled until he was comfortable. His foster father waited patiently . . . as he always did . . . and tried to ignore the little booted heels that dug into his leg.

“Ready?” Elrond asked with a smile as he drew a long wooden box towards them across his desk.

Estel nodded and Elrond had to tuck an arm about the small waist or the youngster would have slipped off his perch in his eagerness to see the promised history aid. His foster father’s nimble fingers released the clasp and lifted the lid.

Eyes widening in awe Estel leaned closer for there, nestled in blue velvet, was the sword of one of the last crowned kings of Gondor. When he would have reached forward to test the edge of the blade Elrond captured his small hand easily. “No. It is sharp,” he warned.

Before Estel could pout Elrond took the small hand firmly in his and separated one pointing finger, curling the others safely into his palm. He guided the little finger slowly along the tang of the long blade, tracing the letters engraved there in an elven script Estel had not yet been taught. As he moved the finger Elrond spoke softly.

“Sun and Moon Birthed Me. Telchar Wrought Me. Narsil Am I.”

Then he moved Estel’s hand higher to touch the leather wrapped grip with its jewel tipped pommel, allowing the lad to to take some control here. The still chubby fingers were not yet long enough to wrap around the hilt, but Estel compared the different textures for a few moments. When he had taken his fill of exploring he leaned back to look up at his teacher.

“Did you really see King Isildur cut off the nasty man’s finger with this?”

Elrond smiled. “I did. His father even let me swing Narsil once, long before it was broken.”

Estel considered. “You are very old,” he commented, before moving on swiftly to ask, “Is it heavy?”

“It is, indeed. Much heavier than my own blade.”

Small grey eyes grew wider and Elrond tried not to wince as Estel wriggled around to face him, those sharp little heels kicking him in the shins several times. “I didn’t know you had a sword, Adar. Where is it? Can I see it? Can I hold it? Why don’t you carry it?”

Elrond raised a hand to stem the sudden rush of questions. “My sword is safely locked away and I do not now carry it because I have no need of it within the safety of this valley. Perhaps I will show it to you upon another occasion. As for holding it . . . I think you will need to grow a little first.”

Estel grinned a gap toothed smile. “If I had a sword I’d wear it all the time and go into battle every day.” He threw his arm wide to demonstrate the breadth of his swing and Elrond tucked back his head just in time to avoid getting a black eye. His shins were not so lucky, however, as Estel turned about once more to examine Narsil.

“Where is it broken? You said it was broken in the big battle.” When he would have reached out to touch Elrond captured his hand again. Then, as he had before, he guided Estel’s finger to a point about two thirds of the way down from the hilt. The two halves of the blade had been married up so carefully in the box that the break was all but invisible to mortal eyes, but Elrond ran his foster son’s finger unerringly along its breadth. What could not be seen by mortal eye could be felt and Estel gasped with delight at this further evidence that this truly was the blade wielded upon that big bad Sauron.

“Is it ever going to be fixed?”

Elrond’s gaze grew distant. “Perhaps it will one day. If a new king comes to claim the throne. And when it is it will need a new name.”

Estel settled more comfortably as Elrond closed the lid of the box and fastened the clasp securely. “When you are a man, full grown, you will have a sword and you will need to give it a name.”

“I shall call my sword Melegrist!” Estel declared firmly.

His foster father grinned, thinking the title more fitting of an axe. “Mighty Cleaver? That would be a fearsome blade indeed.”

In the distance a bell rang and Elrond began to set down his little pupil. “It is time for your lunch, Tithen Pen.”

Estel scrambled up to peck his cheek. “Hannon le, Adar.” Then he scrambled down, inflicting further bruises to Elrond’s shins in the process. 

Once the little Edain had departed, slamming the door behind him in his eagerness to reach the luncheon table, Elrond reopened the box. Down many generations of man he had related the tale of the last great battle and revealed to Isildur’s heirs this now ancient blade. Would Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, finally be the one to claim the birthright of his line? 

END


	21. Lord of the Trek.  Star of the Rings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Picard discovers he has some unexpected guests.

The soft beep of the door chime intruded upon Picard’s reverie but he took a moment to collect his tea from the replicator . . . earl grey . . . and return to his desk before replying. It had been a long day.

“Enter.”

The door slid silently open to admit Data. He stepped equally silently into the captain’s ready room and waited patiently to be asked to state his business. The captain looked up at him expectantly, realising after a few seconds what was required.

“Yes, Mr Data. You wanted to see me about something?” Although he knew it made no difference to the android whether he smiled or not, Picard did so, nonetheless. He had long ago decided that Data was deserving of such consideration.

“Have you a moment, Captain?”

“Certainly, Mr Data.” 

The android, as was his wont, moved straight into the purpose of his visit. “In an effort to understand humans I have been making a study of Earth’s history.”

Picard’s smile warmed. “An admirable idea, Data. Our civilisation is the sum of the events of our past, and each individual is formed by the civilisation they are raised in. History has long been a passion of mine for this very reason.” He indicated a seat at the opposite side of his desk and pushed aside his reports. This conversation promised to be much more interesting than reports.

Seating himself stiffly Data’s head tilted in a way his captain had come to equate with his being confused by something. Was the word “confused” the right term Picard mused? Perhaps “conflicted” would be a better word to use for an artificial intelligence.

“You will remember, captain, that we recently passed through a small time/spatial anomaly.”

“Yes, indeed. All stations reported that there was no damage, however,” Jean Luc replied, pushing aside his tea with a feeling of impending doom. It seemed that every small happening on Enterprise had a tendency to turn into a major event and he had a sudden premonition that this was going to be no exception. “And what has this to do with your studies?”

“You said, captain, that humans were the product of the sum of their history. What would you say if I suggested that a large portion of that history was . . . misplaced?”

Leaning back in his seat, Picard frowned slightly. “I would say that, even now, there are gaps in our knowledge of the past, particularly of the time before written records. Was there a particular time frame you were interested in? I have some knowledge of archaeology. Perhaps I can assist you.”

“That is one of the problems, Captain. I said that the history had been misplaced . . . not that it was missing. This history is very well documented and yet it appears to have been overlooked by all save a few dedicated followers of its discoverer.”

“Indeed? And who would that discoverer be?” Picard had to admit that his curiosity was well and truly piqued by now, his mind reviewing the names of some of the lesser-known but brilliant archaeologists. He was a little stunned when he heard his officer’s reply, however.

“J R R Tolkien, Sir.”

Jean Luc paused a moment to school his face. When Data had first arrived on Enterprise he had occasionally confused fictional people with real ones, at one point developing a passion for Sherlock Holmes. His data banks and neural pathways had expanded since then, however, and it was most unusual for him to be taken in like that nowadays. Perhaps this was some other Tolkien.

“The only J R R Tolkien that I know of, Data, was a professor of English who wrote a series of books about a fictional period of Earth’s history. I believe he used the term, Middle Earth, to describe his imaginary world. It was a fine and very detailed work. But it was most definitely a work of fiction.”

Data performed his head-tilting pose once more. “Fiction, you say Sir?”

Picard sighed. And this had set out to be such an interesting conversation. It turned out to be simply the result of some difficulty in distinguishing between fact and fiction.

“Yes Data. Beautiful and detailed though the work was, it was fiction,” he replied, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice.

Data rose from his chair. “Thank you, Captain. Perhaps you can assist me, then.” He turned back to the door and it slid open obligingly once more. “Do you remember that there was a fluctuation on the transporter readings when we interrupted the anomaly?”

Picard was tiring of the conversation. For once it would seem that a small event was about to stay just that. “Yes. But it was thoroughly checked and reported to be functioning perfectly. It was decided that it was just a power fluctuation.” 

Data put his head around the door and beckoned to someone standing to the side.

Into the room stepped two people as unlike each other as any two people could be. One was tall, slender as a willow wand and with delicately pointed ears peeking out from hair the texture and colour corn silk. The other was only half his size, a little stouter in build although not round by any means, with brilliant blue eyes, dark curly hair and down covered feet that looked far too large for his frame. They both stood eyeing their surroundings somewhat bemusedly.

Data closed the door behind them. “Captain Jean Luc Picard of the Starship Enterprise, may I introduce Prince Legolas, son of Thranduil of Mirkwood and Master Frodo Baggins, son of Drogo Baggins of the Shire.”

The captain of the Enterprise stood and quickly re-assessed the situation. This was one minor event that had definitely just taken on major proportions.

 

THE END


	22. Of High Kings and Enemas'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo's body does not recover as well as it could after the Ring's destruction. When he stops eating Sam decided to call in the big guns when milder solutions do not work.

Had he not been raised in a household of elves, Ellesar, Tellcontar, High King of Gondor may have been intimidated by the ice blue winter sky glare from the being on the bed. As it was, he could only swallow back a smile as he held the eyes of the diminutive figure that sat in isolation in the oversized bed.

White knuckled fingers clutched a small, even on his frame, linen cloth about the little one’s dignity.

For a moment longer fierce ice blue locked with tempered steel grey, then Aragorn could bite back his amusement no longer. Frodo blinked, disgust chasing confusion across his finely drawn features as he watched the erstwhile stern king guffaw. For a split second Frodo moved to fold his arms, then tightened the grasp upon his dignity. Sadly, this only made Aragorn laugh louder and it was some minutes before he regained enough of his royal composure to speak.

“Frodo. It’s not as though I haven’t seen you undressed before. You were filthy when you were laid in my charge and you awoke clean. Who do you think bathed you and tended your injuries?”

“That was different. I wasn’t awake.” Even Frodo squirmed a bit at the fine line he was now drawing. But it just did not feel right, damn it. None of this was right. Aragorn was a friend and it wasn’t the same as Lord Elrond or some physician from the Houses of Healing.

“I assure you that I will behave only as a healer, not as a friend. If that is what you would prefer. All the other healers are busy tending the wounded at the moment and this will be a very simple procedure. I promise.”

Small hands relaxed their death grip upon linen but Frodo put up one last defence. Those large blue eyes peeped up from beneath dark curls. “Are you sure I need this? Surely a spoonful of medicine would do it.”

Aragorn took this as a sign that his foe was about to capitulate. “How many spoonfuls of medicine have you had so far?” he asked as he began to spread a finely ground paste onto a small sliver of thin paper.

Small shoulders squared themselves as their owner realised that his last tactic had not had the desired affect. “I had one this morning and one at midday. Surely we shouldn’t have to resort to this.” Frodo resumed his death grip on the linen and his lips drew into a thin line.

His comment was greeted by an arched brow that was for all the world the mirror of his foster father’s. “And the spoonful you took before bed last night? And the one at tea time? Then there was the one you took at breakfast yesterday. You should know that you can keep nothing from Sam.” Aragorn began to roll the coated paper into a tiny pellet and advanced.

“Sam? Wait until I see him again. I should have known he would not be able to keep a secret. I suppose you asked him straight out? He never could lie to a friend.” Even as he spoke, Frodo began to edge backwards on the mattress . . . no mean feat without the aid of his hands.

“Sam was worried about you. You need to eat and he noticed that you were not doing so. When he saw you taking the medicine he put two and two together. I often wondered why his father named him Samwise. There’s nothing half witted about Sam Gamgee.” 

The words were used to cover his forward momentum but Frodo was not fooled and scooted back further. He had not Aragorn’s flair for strategy however and soon found himself backed up against the headboard with nowhere left to go. The man pressed his advantage and reached out to take Frodo’s arm, albeit gently.

“Come on, now. Over you go. Just onto your side.”

Finally acknowledging defeat, Frodo let go the cloth and settled down onto his side. “Get on with it, then.” His eyes stared straight ahead and away from his tormentor, trying to find something to interest him in the plaster of the wall.

“Thank you, Frodo. This will only take a moment and should work fairly quickly. Once your bowels have moved you will feel much better.” He pushed the small mounds of Frodo’s buttocks apart, holding them that way with splayed fingers as he spread a little oil around the opening revealed.

Frodo hissed. “Your fingers are rough.”

Said fingers paused in their attack. “I am a warrior, Frodo. These hands have found more practice wielding a sword than a scalpel. I am sorry and will be as gentle as I can.” 

The genuine remorse in his voice drew Frodo’s gaze over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Aragorn. I know you only have my welfare in mind and I’m sorry I’m so difficult. Please . . . go on.”

Taking the little pellet, Aragorn inserted it deftly into the puckered opening, pushing it home gently with one finger. Then he wiped the oil away with a clean cloth and re-arranged the fabric that had fallen from Frodo’s narrow hips. “There. It usually takes a little while for that to work.”

Frodo sighed. “What if it doesn’t? What happens then? I am so weary of not being in control of my life.” A faint frown touched his brow and he squirmed a little.

Aragorn sat upon the bed behind him and gripped his friend’s shoulder in comfort. “It will work. That is one of Elrond’s best recipes. The only thing you need to worry about being in control of at the moment is your bowels.” He stroked Frodo’s dark curls. “And when you have regained some of your strength you will be able to return home. Where you can be the master of your own life once more.”

No sooner had he finished speaking, than Frodo’s face took on an expression of pure alarm. “Aragorn!!! I need . . . oh!!” The previously pale face was now bright pink and Frodo wrinkled his nose at the familiar but unexpected smell. “Oh Aragorn. I’m so sorry.”

There was a faint rustle of heavy velvet behind him. “That’s alright, Frodo. I can change.”

 

END


	23. And Swaying Beeches Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tending of Sam and Frodo in Ithilien. Elladan and Elrohir have a contribution to make.

Gandalf finished bathing Sam and turned to see how Aragorn fared with Frodo. One of the healer’s assistants had brought hot water and basin and Aragorn was now searching beneath bushes as a surgeon tied a last stitch on the Ringbearer’s hand.

Seeing all was coming to completion Gandalf beckoned Elrond’s sons to him. Elladan and Elrohir had been standing guard at either end of the grove of beeches in which the two hobbits were being tended. Too many folk had been trying to get a glimpse of the famed rescuers of Middle earth. Now two rangers stepped in to replace the elves and they ran lightly to kneel at the wizard’s side.

“How may we assist?” Elladan asked, his fair features drawn with concern.

“You have been warriors for many years but you also know the lore of trees. Can you make a bed for our little heroes’ as some of your people do?” Gandalf asked hopefully, even as he kept one eye on Aragorn, who now returned with a handful of long slender athelas leaves.

Elladan and Elrohir nodded at once. “Aye. Adar taught us when we were still young enough to climb and play in the valley,” replied Elrohir.

“Then remember the distant lessons of your youth and make a bed fit for the Saviours of Middle earth. Make it big enough for two, mind you. I will not see them parted. They will need each other yet a while, I think.” As he spoke the grove was filled with the wholesome clean scent of Athelas and all paused to draw a deep relieved breath.

Elladan and Elrohir left to walk slowly up and down the grove, whispering to a tree bole here, touching a branch there. They seemed to listen and their path grew more random, as though they followed instructions from one tree to another. Finally they came to a halt between two slender silver trunks supporting several branches lower than their sister trees. Each brother leaned in to speak softly and above them the impossibly lime green leaves, but newly opened even in this mild climb, shivered softly in response. 

Almost imperceptibly slowly, several lower branches swayed downward into the hands of the waiting brothers, who began to sing softly in a tongue ancient ere trees birthed sun and moon. Deftly they wove the branches they were offered and it seemed that the trees themselves aided the task, hardly waiting for long elven fingers to thread and twine them. When they stood back from their task men stepped in to spread blankets and pillows and within minutes there stood a green and fragrant bower.

Gandalf joined Elrond’s sons and pressed gently upon the newly formed bed. It gave, with a soft creak but held firm. “This is well done indeed. I had quite forgotten how comfortable such a bed can be.”

Elladan laughed softly. “The trees thank you, White Wizard. But they say that, should you seek such a bed, you should ask a slightly larger pair of trees to oblige.”

Gandalf laughed too and it seemed that the air itself grew lighter. “Have no fear. Should I seek such a bed I shall find some ancient and venerable oaks more suited to my frame. And then I shall send for you again, Master elves. For these old bones of mine have slept on hard ground too oft of late and they begin to ache.”

Now Elrohir joined his brother’s laughter. “You play your role too well, Ithryn. And I am more than certain that you could command the trees yourself. You have no need of our aid.”  


As they spoke Aragorn arrived, with Frodo’s insensible form cradled carefully in his arms. The Ringbearer was still pale and drawn but peace sat upon his brow and in the small hands, no longer clenched, that lay limply in his lap. The three brothers settled him carefully in the bower while Gandalf fetched the gently snoring Sam. Soon the two companions were tucked warmly beneath blanket and coverlet, their sleep drowned heads resting on fine pillows no doubt gleaned from some Gondorian lordlings pavilion.

For some moments elf, wizard and man stood before the bower, each lost in his own thoughts and prayers. Then Elladan and Elrohir bowed to the unknowing hobbits before returning to take up their posts at either end of the grove. Aragorn sighed. “I could not leave their initial care to others but there are matters I must attend to that can be postponed no longer.”

Gandalf patted his arm, smiling his understanding. “Go, Elessar. You have a kingdom to run. I will care for our little Shirelings. My hand is no longer needed in the shaping of events for now comes the time of men.”

“I can think of no one more fitted to caring for them. But I hope that you will remain among us for a little while yet. This new king of men still has need of his wisest counsellor.”

Gandalf settled easily onto the lush grass at the bedside, his movements betraying no sign of the infirmities he laid claim to earlier. “I shall remain for a time. I have some small tasks to finish and, not least, a king to see crowned.”

Aragorn smiled and if there was an edge of worry to it Gandalf judged that a good thing. No king should sit too proud upon his throne. 

 

END


	24. Open Wide, Please

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MPREG WARNING!!!!! This is about male pregnancy. If it squicks you don’t read it. No flames please. Fanfic is about having fun

Blue-grey eyes met the challenge of summer blue ones squarely. Aragorn stood before the room’s only exit, arms folded. Frodo sat, cross-legged, upon the examining table, his own hands firmly in the lap of his nightshirt.

“It’s months away.” Frodo’s lips formed a straight line and his chin lifted slightly in a way that the King recognised as being his most defiant expression.

Aragorn kept his voice even and calm, but gave no indication of backing down. “If all goes according to nature it is only six months away and we need to start planning now.”

Frodo’s gaze finally dropped and he started to plait his fingers. “If I am to have this child I am sure that “nature” will find a way to birth it.” He swallowed, and when he continued his voice had lost its defiant tone. “And if it does not, you said that Lord Elrond could . . . cut it from me if necessary.” 

Having decided that his charge was no longer quite so set upon bolting, Aragorn stepped away from the door and towards the table. He slid quietly into a chair and laid a large hand upon the smaller ones weaving themselves in Frodo’s lap. His action had the desired affect and blue eyes slid up to his face once more.

“Frodo. If cutting is required we will have to make preparations. We will need to know what adjustments your male body is making to the babe growing inside you and we can only know that if you are examined regularly.”

A pink flush crept up from Frodo’s neck into his cheeks. “But it’s so . . . so . . . personal. Can’t you just tell me what to look for?” There was a note of pleading now.

“No. I cannot tell you because I do not know. I have never heard of a male pregnancy before,” Aragorn replied, softly.

This confession was met with a little shred of resistance. “Then, if you do not know what you are looking for, what is the point of examining me?”

Aragorn leaned back and snorted. “Come now, my dear gentlehobbit. You know very well that the purpose of an examination is to discover what is happening, not to confirm what is or is not expected.”

Frodo’s shoulders dropped. “But I am not used to being examined . . . down there. It is so . . . embarrassing.” 

“Would you prefer to have someone who you do not know as personally? Lord Elrond, or even someone from the Houses of Healing?”

“No! No, please, no. I don’t think I could bear to have a stranger know about this. If it has to be anyone, I would rather it was you . . . or Master Elrond.”

Aragorn made no move. “I can send for Elrond, if you wish. It would probably be him that makes the final decision on method of delivery.”

Frodo squirmed. “We need not disturb him yet.” Came the almost whispered reply.

Taking Frodo’s growing quiet for acceptance, the king and healer arose and rolled up his sleeves. “Let me just wash my hands and I will be ready for you.” He poured waiting warm water into a bowl and drew closer a smaller basin, containing oddly shaped instruments that Frodo could only suspect he knew the purpose of and was certain would not be needed.

“Lift your nightshirt up to your waist and lay down on your back. You may use the blanket at the foot of the table to cover yourself to the waist.”

Relieved that he was to be left some weak attempt at dignity, Frodo lay to attention, clutching the hem of the blanket white-knuckled to his waist. Soft as the blanket was, it was still a little scratchy on delicate, naked skin. 

After carefully drying his hands, Aragorn prized Frodo’s fingers clear and folded the blanket a little lower, so that the small swelling of the hobbit’s stomach could be seen. Frodo watched as large hands came to rest upon his abdomen, moving about, pressing gently here and there on the tiny swelling that they said contained his baby. When he had explored sufficiently, Aragorn pulled the cover higher to preserve Frodo’s dignity and went to wash his hands and collect the smaller basin.

Frodo’s heart stopped as he saw the strangely shaped silver item with what looked to be a screw at it’s end to spread the two curved shaped paddles. A few days earlier the parent-to-be would have been concerned but not worried about the orifice that the instrument was destined for and would have refused to present his bottom to anyone. But Frodo had acquired a natural hobbit inquisitiveness, which had resulted in him making his own examination in the bath a few days ago. Now he suspected that the shiny metal instrument was destined for an orifice other than the traditional one in his bottom.

Gripping the blanket in white knuckled hands once more Frodo made another attempt to stall the inevitable as he tried to calculate whether Aragorn had any blood ties to the Lady Galadriel. For this examination had become an irresistible force of nature, much like said lady.

Silver blue and summer blue eyes duelled once more and for a few minutes seemed evenly matched. Finally, the healer pointed to the gently steaming basin holding the offending instruments. “I have warmed them.”

Frodo pursed his lips in contemplation for a while . . . then Aragorn felt the other’s resolve waver. Ignoring Frodo’s grip on the upper edge of the blanked, the healer rolled the blanket up from Frodo’ feet to his knees. His action was met with a scowl of confusion as Aragorn folded Frodo’s knees upward and placed his feet flat upon the table. Then, with a hand on each knee, Aragorn pushed them out sideways . . . exposing . . . everything. He glanced up to see the pale blush on his charge’s neck and cheeks turn a deeper shade of rose.

Lifting a small piece of linen, Aragorn threaded it beneath Frodo’s frontal anatomy and folded the ends upward, forming an effective sling to present him with a clearer view of the area between Frodo’s legs. Then, to Frodo’s deepening embarrassment, the ends were passed to him to hold and he made one last-ditch plea for clemency. “Can’t you see enough now? Surely you can tell whether cutting will be necessary?”

Aragorn’s reply was disappointing but not wholly unexpected. “There does appear to be an orifice forming here but I need to check how deep it goes and what it connects to.” He lifted the large metal, double bladed instrument from it’s steaming basin and drew his chair directly in front of Frodo, so that he faced the gentlehobbit’s most private and personal areas in intimate scrutiny.

“Try to relax, Frodo. And this will be much less painful.”

Dark brows drew together in a most eloquent manner that screamed that relaxing was the very last thing on their owner’s mind. The small hobbit felt warm metal rest against the newly formed opening and he immediately clenched himself against the intrusion. Suddenly Aragorn found himself in imminent danger of having his head squeezed like a walnut between Frodo’s knees.

“Relax. Women go through this on a regular basis when they are pregnant. It is nothing to be frightened of,” Aragorn tried to assure him as he dropped the instrument back in the water and attempted to pry Frodo’s knees apart again. “Just take a deep breath, Frodo.”

Although following Aragorn’s advice and allowing his knees to be parted once more, Frodo made what he considered a very valid point. “I am not a woman! And that, alone, makes me frightened,” he replied in a slightly peeved tone, one hand trying to ensure that the blanket did not slip and the other still holding tightly to the makeshift sling, protecting the last evidence of his masculinity.

Deciding that he had been gentle for long enough, Aragorn drew on his sternest face, one he had learned from his foster father. “In this aspect you are a woman, and becoming more so every day. So live with it. It is happening.” He waited for what he hoped would be the inevitable outraged response.

Even as Frodo took the deep breath to reply Aragorn felt the hobbits lower regions relax and it was then that he swiftly slid the instrument home and started to spread it. Frodo’s howl would probably be heard in the Shire . . . an equal mix of pain, surprise and outrage. Aragorn had no doubt that had the hobbit had not been frightened of moving with the large piece of hardware inserted in his newly rearranged anatomy, Frodo would have been up off that bed before you could have said, “Breakfast.”

Having finally got him effectively immobilised, Aragorn drew a small oil lamp closer and bent at last to perform that which he had been struggling to do for several minutes. At the other end of the table, Frodo’s head dropped back against the pillows with a defeated thump.

Aragorn was not so wrapped up in his work that he failed to hear the whispered threat that Frodo spoke to the ceiling. 

“One of these days, Strider. One of these days I am going to get my revenge for this. And a hobbit never breaks his promise.”

 

END


	25. Horses for Courses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is mpreg. Don't like it? Don't read it.

“Frodo?” Aragorn raised his brows in a way very reminiscent of his foster father and the small hobbit shifted uncomfortably upon the narrow table.

“I was expecting Aldern,” Frodo muttered, lacing and unlacing his fingers in the lap of his nightshirt. The thought skittered through his embarrassed mind that within a few months he would likely not even have a lap . . . his stomach would be so big. He had seen Dolly Brownlock at eight months gone and she had looked like a huge puffball, the yards and yards of fabric in her smock billowing like a tent in a high gale as she waddled about her garden.

“Master Healer Aldern has been called away to attend an emergency so I said that I would undertake the examination for him. I thought you would prefer to have someone you know, rather than a stranger.”

Huge blue eyes glanced up at the man from beneath a loose drift of burnt chestnut curls. Aragorn had a point. It was bad enough that Frodo, a male hobbit, should find himself in this predicament, without half of Minas Tirith knowing of it. With a sigh, Frodo punched the small pillow into submission and lay back on the hard surface of the examination bed.

If the man noticed that his charge was a little less than gracious about his capitulation he made no comment as he collected a tray and set it upon a small table at the bedside. The covering cloth was flicked aside to reveal basins and other items and Frodo swallowed hard and began to count the cracks in the ceiling. Not that there were many. No self-respecting crack would have dared to scatter plaster dust in somewhere as spotlessly clean as the Houses of Healing.

Aragorn began to wash his hands in one of the basins. He was a little uncomfortable with this situation himself. Even though he had been trained in the many aspects of healing, it was difficult to stay detached when examining a friend. The last time he had needed to tend Frodo the hobbit had been mercifully unconscious and the hands of the King had been his only hope. He glanced at the face before him as he dried those hands.

The Ringbearer had been hardly recognisable then . . . covered in ash and mud . . . his face drawn and his ribs clear for Aragorn to count. He suspected that Frodo would never fully recover but his cheeks now held the palest tint of rose, and large china blue eyes sparkled, even though they held a depth of sadness that had not been there when Aragorn had seen them first, scant months before in Bree. Sensing the man’s intense scrutiny, Frodo swallowed and rolled his head upon the pillow to meet his carer’s steady grey gaze in query.

Aragorn cleared his throat and set down the towel, slipping a hand beneath Frodo’s knees to guide him into the required position for the examination. “Bend your knees and put your feet flat upon the table, please.”

Frodo took a deep breath and started to count the cracks again, his tally interrupted by Aragorn’s soft voice. “You are hiding from me, Frodo. Move your feet further apart.”

A bright flush rose in the hobbit’s cheeks as he complied. Feeling fingers beginning to probe his lower regions, Frodo bit his lip, thankful that Aragorn’s hands were cold. He may be pregnant like a lass but he was still a lad, and whilst the man’s hands were not touching anywhere that they were not supposed to . . . well . . . “Sometimes a lad’s body takes off without the mind,” as Bilbo had told his nephew one morning, several years ago. Frodo concentrated very hard upon making sure that such a thing did not happen this morning.

Any such thoughts fled, however, when Aragorn slipped a gentle finger into an opening that Frodo had not been aware of before, and he could not help but try to squirm away . . . giving out a small squeak that would have stood any lass proud.

Aragorn looked up in surprise at the reaction, apologetic at once. “I’m sorry, Frodo. Did that hurt?”

Frodo swallowed and forced himself to relax but when he spoke his voice broke like a tweenager. “No . . . no . . . not exactly. I . . . I . . . I just wasn’t . . . expecting . . . that.” Feeling betrayed by his own body he cleared his throat and went on the offensive. “Are you . . . sure you know what you’re doing? How did you learn about childbirth, Aragorn?”

Aragorn tilted his head. “I have travelled in Middle-earth for many years, not always as a Ranger and not always in the wilds.”

His curiosity piqued, Frodo continued. “But in the Shire a midwife would tend a birthing. Males are not allowed. It would be too embarrassing for . . . well . . . for both.”

Aragorn pursed his lips. “Would you not send for a doctor if there were complications?”

Frodo shook his head and Aragorn’s eyebrows climbed higher. “There’s little a doctor could do that a midwife couldn’t. But how did you come to know so much about birthing? Is it usual for men to help their ladies in these things? I know little about the practices of big folk in these matters.”

As the hobbit’s inquisitive nature overtook his embarrassment, Aragorn bent to his examination of Frodo’s nether regions once more, his finger probing more gently now and his face hidden from his charge by the spread of Frodo’s nightshirt, stretched across the hobbit’s knees. “The principle is much the same as a horse, is it not?” The finger paused at Frodo’s quick intake of breath. The hobbit’s usually well-modulated voice rose a notch and his hands grasped the sides of the table, white knuckled.

“A horse! Do you mean to tell me . . . I mean . . . you have only ever examined . . . helped to . . . birth . . . horses?”

The man’s face rose above the white linen wall of Frodo’s stretched nightshirt and the two stared at each other for several seconds, in silence. It was Aragorn who broke first, his grey eyes dancing with laughter, lips twitching in an attempt to stop the mirth that threatened to bubble forth. Frodo’s eyes widened in realisation and then his merry peal of laughter rang out for the first time in many weeks. 

“Aragorn!” 

The two laughed until tears ran down their faces and both were so exhausted that they had to abandon the examination. Aldern would have to do it on another day.

 

000000000000

 

Merry leaned back in his chair, propping his feet upon that recently occupied by Arwen. Recognising the hobbit propensity for filling up the corners for hours after a meal, she had excused herself, pausing to brush her lips against her husband’s brow on the way. Pippin tossed Merry an apple, taking a pear for himself, and the others picked at grapes and soft yellow cheese while Gandalf helped himself to a glass of rather fine port.

Chewing thoughtfully for a minute, Pippin finally caught Frodo’s eye. “So, cousin. Do you think you will have a lad or a lass?”

Aragorn’s soft voice slipped into the gap. “A colt . . . definitely a colt.”

 

END.


	26. Never Gang Up On A Pregnant Hobbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MPREG WARNING. I went through a phase of writing these some time ago and am only now getting around to posting them. If you don’t like mpreg or medical examinations don’t read it. Frodo is near his time and finds a visitor in Elrond's examining room.

Checking the fastenings of his long and rather voluminous robe once more, Frodo opened the door to Imladris’ private infirmary. Curious, he looked about the now familiar room, for he had heard two voices as he stood outside, both of which he recognised.

The sight that greeted him made him gather up his robe and run (or at least try to) across the room into the open arms that awaited him. He wrapped his own arms tightly about the neck of their owner and remained thus for several moments before drawing back with a dimpled smile.

“Aragorn! When did you arrive?”

The king arose and offered Frodo a hand up onto a deeply padded chair. “I arrived late yesterday evening. I would have come to see you at once but Lord Elrond told me that you had already retired for the night.”

Bright blue eyes focussed accusingly upon the tall elven healer watching them. “You could have woken me.”

His admonishment was met with one elegantly raised brow. “Your sleep has grown lighter and more troubled of late and I will not disturb it unnecessarily.” Without waiting for any reply he turned to the examination bed and removed a section of the thickly quilted surface.

“A few hours less sleep would not have mattered for one night,” Frodo murmured. He knew Elrond would hear the words, and also that the elven lord would not deign to reply. Elrond had settled in his mind what was best for his charge and that, in his eyes, was the end of the matter.

Giving up on that idea, Frodo turned his attention back to Aragorn, who had taken a seat opposite, his face holding a knowing smile. “What brings you here, Your Majesty.”

Taking in the twinkle in the hobbit’s eyes, King Elessar made a slightly mocking bow. “Why, to see you, Master Hobbit. I received word that your child would be born soon and wanted to be here to welcome him into the world.”

Frodo’s dimples deepened. “I do hope it is soon. Turning over in bed has become rather like trying to roll a barrel uphill.”

“Indeed,” came Elrond’s voice. “That is why I will not have your rest disturbed.” 

Frodo glanced over Aragorn’s shoulder and his brows quirked as he watched the healer. Beneath the section of mattress that was removed, Elrond had lifted and fixed two carved uprights, from which dangled padded leather loops. He then expertly replaced the padded section of mattress.

“Come, Frodo. It is time for your examination.” Elrond beckoned him forward and with a grimace at Aragorn, much shuffling and finally, a hand from his friend Frodo managed to extricate himself from the chair.

A set of steps, perfectly proportioned for hobbit feet, had been drawn up to the side of the examination table. They were much paler in colour than the bed they rested beside but very obviously carved to match it. Frodo allowed Elrond to help him out of his robe, revealing a slightly shorter nightshirt. The hobbit refused the offered hand, however, scowling at the bed before taking the handrail and climbing the steps.

“I have come to hate this bed.”

“Why ever so?” Aragorn asked as he helped Frodo make the final transition from steps to bed. “It is a beautiful thing. The carving is more exquisite than anything I have seen elsewhere . . . and it is very comfortable to lie on.”

Frodo’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead and his eyes flew to the king’s waistline. In response Aragorn grinned. “It’s not just used for examining pregnant people, you know,” he supplied. Both hobbit and man gave way to laughter while Elrond looked on indulgently.

“When you have both finished, I have other matters to attend to after this examination.”

Aragorn knew his foster father well enough to detect the slight twinkle in those sombre grey eyes and he winked at Frodo as he helped the small hobbit to scoot closer to the end of the bed . . . the end that now sported those new additions.

Pulling a small table closer, Elrond continued. “As you are coming very close to your time for birthing I will need to perform an internal examination today, to establish that matters are progressing well with the birth canal.”

Frodo scowled, squirming a little as Elrond took one of his feet in hand. To his surprise, his foot was slotted through the leather sling. “Now, just a minute. What is that for? You didn’t need that before. This is very undignified.”

He folded his arms and the scowl darkened, although the effect was lost somewhat by the fact that his chest had recently swollen to complement his tummy, so he could only cross his forearms, and he had one leg dangling in a leather sling.

Aragorn turned from where he was placing shiny metal objects of, to Frodo, unknown purpose into a basin of warm water on the nearby table. It was he that stepped in to try and soothe the parent-to-be’s ruffled feathers. 

“I know it looks odd, Frodo. But it will be more comfortable for an extended examination. Elrond needs to check deep within you and it may take longer than you are used to.”

Elrond made no comment, merely taking Frodo’s remaining ankle and placing it in the other contraption, leaving the hobbit with a rather uncomfortable memory of the crows strung up at the side of fields by farmers. He would have squirmed again, were he able to, but settled for blushing, knowing that his private nether regions were now on full display to anyone entering the room.

Making no comment, Elrond settled in his customary examining chair between Frodo’s feet and pushed a lamp closer. Frodo would have counted the flowers carved into the ceiling beams but he already knew there were twelve.

Elrond matter-of-factly lifted Frodo’s male genitalia out of the way and spread a cool salve between his legs. “There, Estel. Do you see it? It is quite extraordinary. The opening developed within only four months of conception and has been slowly working inwards. I have not examined it too often for fear of causing damage. I do not know how strong the muscles are that surround it.”

Aragorn bent lower and Frodo’s blush deepened as the two examined an area that simply should not, in his mind, deserve such scrutiny. He gritted his teeth, determining that if he interrupted them as little as possible the whole thing would be over sooner.

He could not resist flinching, however, when Aragorn’s fingers joined Elrond’s in probing the area. How could they get two such large hands into that small area? By spread-eagling him like a carcass at the slaughterhouse, his mind replied.

Both of his tormentors seemed to ignore the involuntary movement and Aragorn removed a wicked looking silver item from the warm water and passed it to the chief torturer. Elrond’s face smiled at Frodo from above the stretched hem of the hobbit’s nightshirt and he wondered if Bill Ferny had looked like that when he had been paid all that silver for his pony.

“This may feel a little uncomfortable at first but your body will stretch to accommodate it.”

Frodo grimaced as he felt warm metal poised at the opening and hissed as it pressed inward. His body tensed against the intrusion at once and the instrument’s progress halted. Elrond’s voice again.

“Relax, Frodo. It will hurt much less if you relax. Let your thighs fall lower. The stirrups are there to take the weight for you. Try a deep breath . . . that’s it.”

As Frodo forced himself to comply he felt the metal pushing further in and only managed to relax further when it stopped. There was a blessed pause, and then . . . 

“Owww!” The pressure had shifted from inward to outward and Frodo felt as though he was being spliced in two like a log with a wedge.

“Relax, Frodo. This opening will have to stretch much further than this to accommodate your babe’s head. Just breathe and relax into it as I have taught you for the birthing.”

Frodo took a deep breath as instructed and decided that he definitely did not want to go through with this whole pregnancy idea. Not that he had been consulted in the first place.

Aragorn’s face joined Elrond’s, out of Frodo’s sight, beyond the nightshirt hem and the hobbit’s mood grew more thunderous as he listened to them.

“See. The canal is quite smooth but you can just see rings of muscle around it, rather like those in the gullet.”

Aragorn’s voice was filled with awe. “I can see the opening to what must be the womb at the top. It seems a little dilated. Has it always been so?”

“No. I believe that if there are to be any birthing pains they should start soon. And see how the canal does not slope backwards, as it does in females.” 

“I had noticed that. Why do you think that is?” 

“I believe that may be because of the shape of the pelvis. Space is at a premium.”

Both voices came to a startled halt when Frodo’s hand batted his nightshirt down and his angry face peered at them from over the mound of his belly. “It belongs to me, you know. There is life beyond my waist!”

Elrond’s brows rose in perfect unison and for a second Frodo wondered if any part of the elven lord’s anatomy did anything any other way but perfectly. He ruthlessly pushed the subject aside for consideration at some other time.

“I am not just a group of organs around a baby. Now get your eyes, your fingers and that . . . that . . . thing out of me!” The volume of his voice rose. “And let me out of this contraption!” 

Taking due consideration of Frodo’s puce features, Elrond and Aragorn needed no further encouragement to obey. The metal device was removed and landed with a “splink” in the basin of water and Aragorn unhooked the hobbit’s trembling feet.

Elrond it was who helped Frodo down from the couch and Aragorn handed him his robe. With one final glare over his shoulder, the parent-to-be marched somewhat bow-legged from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Aragorn turned to his father. “Those mood swings are terrifying, aren’t they?”

The corners of Elrond’s lips quirked upward in a wry smile. “And I have been dealing with them for five months.”

The colour suddenly drained from Estel’s face. “Do women . . . I mean . . . will Arwen?”

His father’s smile widened. “Oh, yes.”

END


	27. Goodnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo returns to his bed after meeting Bilbo in Rivendell. Sleep eludes him for a while until Elrond comes to his aid. A little piece of hurt/comfort.

Bidding goodnight to Bilbo, Frodo had allowed Sam to escort him back to the comfort of his room, wishing him pleasant dreams at the door. Alone once more, Frodo leaned back, feeling the intricately carved wood of the closed door pressing into his spine. It was uncomfortable and yet comforting at the same time. The pressure tied him to his body in a way that the icy chill of the past two weeks had not. That pain had sought to separate him from the world, whilst this supported and made him very much aware of his surroundings.

He let his eyes sweep the room, having the leisure to do so for the first time since he had awoken. He had been too weary the first time he awoke . . . too eager for news . . . and the second awakening had brought only time to bathe and dress before Sam collected him for the feast.

A fire had been lit in the grate and the covers on his bed were smoothed, the pillows fluffed and ready to cradle his drowsy head. Frodo released the firm comfort of the door and crossed the room, shrugging out of his new clothes and climbing gratefully between soft sheets and warm blankets. Once there, however, he found his body curiously reluctant to surrender to sleep.

So much had happened in the past few hours. He had awoken from chill nightmare to sunshine and warmth. Gandalf had been waiting at his bedside . . . Gandalf that he had so feared he would never see again . . . whole and well. Then he had learned of Saruman’s treachery and, for a while the shadows had crowded in about him again. The exhausted sleep that he had drifted into had been a release from his renewed worries. Then there had been the wonderful re-union with his cousins and Sam, the feast, singing and finally . . . Bilbo. 

Stretching, Frodo winced as his left shoulder protested . . . a reminder that life would never be the same again. He was still bound to the Ring and the cool silver of the chain about his neck gave small comfort from the smooth circle of gold that seemed to lie too hot against his chest. 

Tomorrow there would be a Council to determine the fate of the enemy’s ring and Frodo was not altogether sure what that fate would be, or whether he would have any further part to play in it. A corner of his heart wanted to be rid of the accursed thing, but yet another was not sure that he would be able to give it up if asked. He thought back to the moment that Gandalf had thrown the Ring into the fire at Bag End. He had almost reached into the flames to rescue it.

Frodo tried to roll onto his left side, hissing and easing onto his back again as the added pressure brought another sting of pain. The room was limed with pale moonlight, bathed in warm firelight. The sound of rushing water was calming and the smell of fresh linens a balm . . . but still he could not sleep. There was a faint click and Frodo sat up in surprise as the door to his room slid slowly open.

“Lord Elrond? I am sorry . . . did you want to speak to me again? Sam suggested that I return to my bed and I thought . . .”

The tall elf waved him to silence as he glided silently to Frodo’s bedside and firm but gentle hands eased him back into pillows, tucking the covers about him. Taking a small vial from within his fine silk robes, Elrond placed it upon a table and settled himself upon the edge of the mattress . . . his weight causing no shift in its substance.

“Peace, Frodo. I merely wished to ensure that you were comfortable. You have had a busy evening and you need rest. How does your shoulder feel now?”

Unwilling to place any further burden upon his gracious host, Frodo smiled. “It is much better. I thank you for healing me and for being so kind.”

The finely arched brows of the Lord of Imladris drew into a slight frown, however and keen eyes, glinting silver in the moonlight, moved to find the fine white line on Frodo’s left shoulder. One pale hand, the fingers elegantly long but yet strong, probed lightly along the scar and Frodo drew in a sharp breath as the healer found the remaining point of pain, unerringly. 

“Better . . . but not yet well, I think,” Elrond murmured, his eyes slipping up to Frodo’s face and engaging the bright blue orbs. 

Frodo blinked, pulling his gaze away from those ancient pools of starlight. “I am sure I will feel better after a good night’s sleep.”

Elrond reached for the vial and removed the stopper. “And that is what you were doing when I arrived, is it? Sleeping?”

The hobbit watched as Elrond poured a few drops of oil into his hand and then rubbed his palms together . . . releasing the exquisitely sharp scent of lavender. Frodo relaxed, the perfume drawing him back to heady summer childhood days in the Shire. Days when the only worry he had in his head was whether he would be home in time for tea.

“I think, perhaps, that your body is tired but that your mind still races with the anxiety of your journey and the excitement of today’s events.” Warm hands came to rest upon Frodo’s shoulder and practised fingers kneaded gently at knotted muscles.

Frodo drew a deep breath and allowed some of the tension to seep away with his exhalation. The healer’s fingers slid smoothly up and down the length of his arm, bringing gentle relief to chilled flesh and coaxing a comfortable sigh from Frodo’s lips. As fingers eased tense sinew, so the warm scent of lavender eased his mind and Frodo let heavy eyelids slide shut as he buried deeper into the cradle of pillows and soft mattress. 

Barely stifling a yawn, Frodo tried to express his thanks through lips that no longer seemed willing to co-operate. “You have done . . . you . . . done . . . so much . . .” His words faded to a soft slur.

“I have done no more than you deserve. Take comfort in tonight and leave the worries of tomorrow and the pain of yesterday to tend to themselves.”

Frodo was only vaguely aware of the covers being tucked under his chin and of a gentle hand brushing his brow as he sank into a deep and comfortable sleep. Elrond’s whisper blended with the rush of the many falls beyond the window until it seemed the whole valley was urging Frodo . . . 

“Sleep, Little One, and may the Valar thread your dreams with starlight this night.”

 

END


	28. Gandalf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf joins Arwen as she unravels her embroidery threads.

They sat in companionable silence. Arwen bent over her embroidery frame, her nimble fingers threading the needle up and down through the black fabric, leaving a trail of silver in their wake. Gandalf stared thoughtfully at the tangled skein of multi-coloured silks in his lap whilst, at their feet, a tiny black kitten pounced and batted at a stray leaf.

The wizard began to tease at a bright yellow thread at the edge of the mass. It seemed to be largely unconnected with the rest but when he had worked at it for a few minutes he found that it dived into the centre of the labyrinth of strands and became lost. Voices drifted across the lawn and he looked up, his eyes taking a moment to adjust. Frodo and Sam were strolling along the edge of a flower bed, still bright with berried shrubs in late autumn. One arm about his master’s waist, Sam was pointing out the different colours with his other hand. Frodo leaned in to his friend’s support but his voice was light and clear and full of questions. They disappeared around a corner and Gandalf returned to the problem in his lap.

So many different types of thread. There were silks, in abundance, but also silver and gold, the gentle fuzz of wool and the soft matte of cotton. All were so different and yet, when combined they could make a thing of great beauty. They had to be put together in an ordered way, however. The result of careless action was sitting beneath his calloused fingers. His stomach grumbled in protest at not having eaten breakfast. In an hour he would be sharing lunch with the Lord of Imladris and the wizard knew that the main topic of conversation was to be the selecting of the members of the Fellowship. He looked down at a slight tug on his robe. The kitten had abandoned its leaf in favour of a loose thread on the hem of wizard’s mantle. Gandalf smiled. One more loose end amongst the rest.

A long loop of royal blue silk presented itself to his fingers. Both ends were lost amongst the web of colours. He finally managed to unravel it from a group of silver threads, which fell free in a separate knot in his hands, but for one that seemed determined to twine around it and be drawn into the complex knot at the centre of his problem. Arwen’s soft voice gently chided the tiny cat. “Kizzy. Don’t play with that. Here.” She tossed a small ball of grey wool to the tiny creature and it caught it mid-air, batting it towards the lawn and running after it, tail pointed skyward.

After half an hour of pulling, teasing and chasing ends Gandalf began to wonder why he had volunteered for the job. He had been wandering across the terrace when he had seen Arwen struggling with the knot and knew that he could not just leave her to her trouble. Was it a need to meddle in the affairs of others? He had been accused of that before but he did not think so. He had felt an overwhelming need to help. It was a part of his being, like breathing and eating. The noon bell brought him back from his reverie and his stomach growled. 

Arwen looked up from her work. “My father will be waiting for you. You had better leave that problem.” Her brows raised in surprise as she surveyed his work of the past hour. Nearly half the threads had been smoothed and skeined, with only the most tightly knotted ball left. “Thank you, Mithrandir. I would not have believed it possible to rescue so much from that chaos.” 

He stood, setting the tangle on one side. “With your permission, I shall return after lunch to continue the work.” 

Arwen smiled. “You are always welcome, you know that.” 

The old wizard bent to kiss her forehead and then, taking up his staff, returned to the house.


	29. Fireside Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hollin was an empty land but I can't imagine that there would not be some tiny communities eking out an existence somewhere within it. Anyway, there are in my head. So what would they think when the Fellowship passed through, most particularly Legolas?

They say this was elvish land once. Hollin, it’s called on the maps but folks round here ain’t much into maps . . . too busy scratching life out o’ this cursed thin land. Course, some say fair folk never lived here, even that there weren’t no fair folk . . . that they’re some fireside tale for a winter’s eve.

‘Tis a while since we’ve had strangers here and these surely live up to the name. The old man and the scruffy fellow look plain enough, though there’s a watching air about ‘em. And we’ve had the odd dwarf tradin’ in market afore, but them children with the old eyes make me shudder. Then there’s that big man with the grand clothes, proud as a king he is and an odd one even among them. Them horse lords yonder side the mountains don’t dress that fancy. And there’s the ironmongery on ‘em all. They’re geared up for trouble. Whether giving or getting ain’t mine to know.

But ‘tis the other that’s brought a hush to market. Tall and pale as a silver birch in starlight he is. Clear and sharp as a winter moon but soft as mornin’ mist in summer. Fireside tale a walkin’.


	30. Dear Sam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mention of mpreg.

Dear Sam,

What wonderful news. I could hardly believe it when I heard that you and Rose were expecting your first child. 

I know that Mrs Cotton is probably giving lots of good advice and your Rose is being well looked after, but I just could not resist taking this opportunity to send her a few things. In the box you will find the following: -

 

A small vial of oil. When Rosie gets near her time she could well have certain problems with her innards. Tell her that two teaspoons of this will “get things moving again”. She will know what I mean. Trust me when I say that you are better off not knowing.

A small box of bath salts. Lord Elrond made me bathe in these. They are wonderfully relaxing and will not harm the babe in any way. You may have to keep checking on your Rose, as I remember that on several occasions they were so relaxing that I fell asleep in the bath. It would not do to have poor Rose drown in her bathtub.

A large jar of ointment. As Rose grows bigger she will find that her skin gets dry and itchy. If you massage in the cream it will make her much more comfortable. It is also a very good way of introducing yourself to that baby. They can hear and feel you, you know. Lord Elrond told me so. I used to sing to Calimore.

If there is anything else that I can send please let me know.

 

Oh Sam. I hope you know what you are letting yourself in for. What am I saying. Of course you do not know. You never will until you have gone through it. 

Let me see. You know about the emotional swings already. Poor Sam. What a trial I was to you in those early days. All I can say in my defence is that at least you will know what to do when Rose is afflicted with them. I hope that Rose does not develop a liking for cheese and strawberry conserve sandwiches, however. That combination can give you awful heartburn. I speak from experience.

Ensure that Rose gets plenty of rest and drinks lots of milk. I would tell you to make sure that she gets lots of gentle exercise but I suspect your big problem will be to get her to stop exercising. She does not have my love of feather beds and books. Elrond became quite the bully about getting me to take a walk each day. And here is a big hint for you, Sam dear. Never, never, never underestimate the pleasure of a foot massage to a pregnant hobbit.

You are going to be so happy and blessed, Sam. You have no idea what joy in life is restored with the birth of a baby until you experience it. Each day is an adventure, as you see things that you have taken for granted for so many years through the eyes of a newcomer.

But that is still in the future and you have so much to enjoy now. You and Rose are going to have such fun. It will not be long before you will be able to feel your babe moving. That is such a wonder, as you suddenly realise that this is a real person. And be sure to warn Rosie about those big feet. I can remember Calimore finding the same place to push with his feet for weeks. It can get a bit painful. Oh now, here I go, sounding like some old widow over her sewing. Whatever pain Rosie feels, tell her it will all be worth it in the end.

A baby can bring joy and healing, Sam. You never spoke much about it but I know you have your scars from that long journey too and this baby will help you to become whole once more. She will teach you to look forward, instead of back. I have found so much healing with Calimore and you deserve as much as I. And yes, I did say, “she”. I do not know how I know, but I am sure it is to be a lass.

You will have to postpone your visit Rivendell for my birthday but Rose needs you more than I do now. You should be with her. Enjoy this time together, before the birth, for it is very special and so soon over. Savour each day. And perhaps we will be able to see each other next year. I shall send a special present from Uncle Frodo for your new arrival, for Elrond has promised to send letters and parcels any time I wish. There are always elves travelling to the havens now and if you wish to write back you need only contact one of the Rangers on the borders of the Shire. They will recognise you and have instructions on how to get letters to me.

I shall have to close now, for the elves are waiting in the courtyard below.

Your dearest friend

 

Frodo.

 

PS. I almost forgot. I also enclose a piece of paper with Calimore’s hand and footprints. He is too young to write a letter I am afraid.


	31. Tithen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who needs elvish medicine when you have cats?

Frodo could not remember ever feeling so at peace and he gently scratched the neck of the warm furry mound on the floor at his side.

After the Council everyone craved his attention but he escaped swiftly to the sanctuary of his room. Carrying the One Ring from the Shire to Rivendell was one thing, but to take it all the way to Mordor and right into the Enemy’s lair was quiet another. Even now he did not understand what had made him speak up and the memory made his head spin and his stomach churn alarmingly.

He would have scrambled to his feet when Lord Elrond stepped into his chamber a little while later but the elf simply waved him down, announcing cryptically that he had brought him some medicine. 

Whilst not unknown cats were not common in the Shire, their presence generally confined to farms where they helped control the rat population. Elrond introduced this one as Tithen. Frodo assumed that in some things at least the elvish sense of humour was similar to that of hobbits for this cat was anything but little. Indeed she was the biggest, fattest cat he had ever seen, standing almost as high as Frodo’s shoulder where he sat on the rug and at least as big again around. It was clear that Tithen had been fed only the choicest foods. He suspected no rats passed this white whiskered muzzle.

He was startled at first but Elrond only smiled when she ran from behind his robes, tail waving mast-like and step nimble despite her size. She made straight for Frodo. Of course, the fact that her target was sitting, hands about his knees, on a thick rug in front of a blazing hearth may have had something to do with this sudden switch of loyalty. When the huge creature sat neatly at his side and leaned in to delicately sniff at his face Frodo froze in place, feeling the unfamiliar tickle of long wiry whiskers against his cheek. For a moment amber eyes met summer blue and then Tithen butted gently at Frodo’s chin before leaning in closer to rub her head along the chest of his deep green velvet jerkin.

Bilbo Baggins nephew was a little annoyed when he glanced down to see a wide trail of ginger hairs smeared across the front of his new suit, but that was the moment in which Tithen began to purr loudly and his every thought paused. Winding her way twice through the tunnel formed by Frodo’s thigh and calf she settled on the rug in a huge striped ginger and white puddle. It seemed she was no respecter of personal space for Tithen lay so close against his hip that he could feel the vibration of her thrumming purr in his bones.

Softly smiling, Elrond slipped from the room as his guest was thus distracted.

When Frodo continued to sit, wary and perfectly still, Tithen made her needs known by butting at his calf and then stretching higher to rub against his clasped hands. Frodo was amused at her assertiveness and a little surprised at how wonderfully soft cat fur felt against the back of his wrist. As it became clearer that she was no threat, he lowered one tentative hand to her back. The buzzing burr deepened as Tithen looked up to blink amber eyes lazily at him once before closing them and lowering her chin to the rug.

Frodo’s small fingers all but disappeared into the thick, soft warmth of Tithen’s pelt and annoyance at the hairs on his clothing floated away as he sank further under the spell of the deep rumble beneath his palm. Dancing flames, the warmth of fire and cat, the crackle of burning wood and the rhythmic, droning purr all conspired to gently soothe his heart and mind at last.

Frodo smiled as he stared into the flames. Here was true magic and it had nothing to do with elves.


	32. Nutsil

Pippin selected another walnut from the dish at his side and whacked it. The shell shattered with a loud crack and he set too, picking out the creamy flesh. “How long have they been out there now?”

Merry looked up at the clock tower. “Four hours.” He filched a bit of nut and Pippin scowled, moving the rest beyond his reach.

“I hope that means luncheon soon. I’m starving.”

Merry snorted. “You’ve been eating non-stop since second breakfast.”

“Well, they haven’t given us elevenses yet. And it’s past eleven, I’m sure.” He smashed another nut. “How long does it take to hand over a ring, anyway?”

Merry frowned. “I have an awful feeling that there won’t be much handing over being done.”

Pippin’s hand stopped half way to his mouth. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, that I know our cousin well enough to guess that he feels responsible in some way and that he’ll probably volunteer to go whenever with whoever decides to do whatever with it.” Merry folded his arms, his frown deepening.

Pippin pulverised another nutshell as he tried to unravel that statement.

“Pip. What are you using to smash those nuts?”

“I found it up there.” The youngster pointed to a balcony above them where the back of an elegant statue could just be seen. “It’s the hilt of some old sword.” He held it up. “The blade was broken so I don’t think they’ll mind me using it. The pommel makes a perfect nut cracker.”


	33. The Headless Bridegroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elessar waits for the arrival of his bride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own a thing. It all belongs to JRR Tolkien, except the goldfish pond. This is a non profit fanfic written for the Teitho challenge, ‘waiting’.

Legolas smiled as Aragorn patted his pockets for the tobacco pouch that could clearly be seen upon the bench at his side. He continued to watch in some amusement as, having reached the end of his pockets, his friend methodically began the search once more. Never having understood the enjoyment mortals gained from the noxious smelling pipeweed, Legolas considered it fortunate that the bowl on this particular pipe was quite small, for Aragorn had refilled it at least five times whilst they had been sitting together in the late afternoon sun.

It was Gimli who sighed and eventually waved the pouch beneath Aragorn’s nose. “That’s the third time you’ve lost this today, laddie. Your body is here but where’s your head?”  
Aragorn accepted the pouch with a grimace but no comment and began to pack his pipe once more. 

They sat within the walled garden of the Citadel, one of the few within this fortress city of Minas Tirith. Legolas’ laughter blended seamlessly with the birdsong around them. “His head is leagues away in the valley of Imladris, Master Dwarf, seeking the whereabouts of the lady of that realm.”

“I should have known there would be a female involved,” Gimli replied with a pull on his own pipe.

Aragorn interjected, a little peevishly. “I am still sitting here, you know.”

“So Gimli just pointed out. It is the whereabouts of you mind that we question. For one dreadful moment this morning I thought you were going to appoint my father’s envoy Prince of Ithilien and send Lord Faramir to my father with your thanks and good wishes.”

Even Aragorn chuckled. “That would have been interesting. Although I would like you to bring some of your people to Ithilien at some point, if you are still willing.”

“I had not forgotten and will do so gladly, once I have my father’s permission. And, by the way, my father’s envoy brought other news.” Here Legolas paused with a smile.  
“Well?” Aragorn tilted his head in query. “You smile overmuch this evening. I find it quite disconcerting.”

Legolas continued to smile. “He said that he passed a party of riders travelling down the west bank of the Anduin. He remarked upon it for it is many years since he saw the Lord of Imladris moving beyond his own borders to travel abroad in the land.”

Aragorn leaned forward, his pipe forgotten in the light of this news. “Elrond was among them? And what of Arwen?” His eager expression drew into a suspicious frown. “And just when were you going to tell me this?”

“Believe it or not, I was going to tell you when we sat down. But I was enjoying watching you too much. And yes, the lady was with them.” He permitted His Majesty to push the royal elven shoulder in mock anger.

Suddenly the king was in full control of his head once more. “When will they arrive do you think? A large party will not travel as quickly as one envoy. And no doubt they will wish to visit Lorien and the lady’s grandparents, as it is on their way. They must have set out upon the day of my coronation to have reached Anduin so soon. I wonder how they came by the news so quickly.”

Legolas jumped in as soon as there was a gap in his friend’s musing. “I suspect the eagles may have taken word, or perhaps the Lady Galadriel had some hand in it,” he offered.  
“Aye. She’s a canny lady, as wise as she is beautiful,” added Gimli with a sigh.

“Oh, now do not go misplacing your head too, my friend. I cannot deal with two lovesick calves.” Legolas offered Gimli a stern glance, although laughter tugged at the corners of his lips.

Gimli spluttered. “The Lady is bound to another. I am no mooning calf. Mine is a courtly love only.”

“Peace, Gimli,” Legolas raised both hands in placation. “I would not wish to imply otherwise.”

“Enough, gentlemen.” Aragorn exploded into action, pacing to and fro on his long legs. “Give me peace to think.” 

Gimli took another puff on his pipe and Legolas subsided into amused silence as Aragorn began to think aloud once more. “If they travel swiftly, from Anduin they could arrive within five or even four weeks.” 

Legolas drew back as Aragorn’s face loomed suddenly in front of him. “When and where did your envoy say he saw the party?”

Legolas was silent for a long moment, apparently considering the question, and then he burst into laughter. “I cannot do this any longer. It is too painful to watch.” Finally he mastered his amusement. “My father’s envoy advised me that Lord Elrond and his daughter will be arriving at the gates of Minas Tirith upon the eve of midsummer.”

“You have kept that from me for all this time? You have sat for the best part of a day and watched me fret and worry?” Aragorn’s eyes narrowed and he threw aside his pipe.

“You’d best run, Master Elf. Tis not wise to withhold such important news from a prospective bridegroom,” offered Gimli as he settled in to watch the fun.

This was one occasion when an elf accepted advice from a dwarf without question. Legolas took to his heels with some alacrity and the King of the West abandoned all dignity to pursue him for several circuits about the goldfish pond.

END


	34. It's Not Easy, Wearing Green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It all belongs to JRR Tolkien. I'm only playing in his sandbox.

_“There were soft green slippers set ready beside each bed.”  
In The House Of Tom Bombadil – The Fellowship Of The Ring_

Pippin dropped onto a thick mattress and picked up one green slipper. Curious, he held it up against the sole of his foot, discovering that it would probably fit. 

Merry watched as he dried his hands and face. “Do you think we ought to tell him we don’t?”

Frodo gathered up a pair and sat on the mattress next to Pippin. “Maybe he hasn’t noticed that we don’t. We wouldn’t want to offend him.” He slid first one foot and then the other into the supple green suede and stood up.

With a grimace, Sam followed suit and then remained perfectly still, as though his feet had been nailed to the floorboards. Pippin shrugged, ramming his feet into the footwear and, not to be outdone, Merry did the same.

“Now what?” asked Merry, feet planted firmly on the floor. 

“We walk, I suppose,” answered Pippin. He took two steps and came to a sudden stop with a yelp.

Sam yelped too. 

At Pippin’s first step his slipper came off with such forward velocity that it flew across the room to hit Sam squarely on the shin. His second step had not been quite so forceful, resulting in that slipper only sliding forward. However, when he lowered his foot the heel ended up half in and half out, and it was landing with his full weight on the back edge of the slipper that had elicited his yelp.

Pippin jumped out of the offending slipper. “That didn’t go well.” He crossed to a scowling but still frozen Sam and reclaimed his footwear with a shrug of apology.

Merry slid a foot along the floor and followed it with the other. “There must be a knack to this,” he muttered as he began a slow circuit of the room, arms swinging from side to side and looking, for all the world, as though he were wading through treacle.

Frodo lifted his foot, tilting it upward at once as he felt the slipper begin to drop off. When he brought his foot down again the back of the footwear landed first however and the whole thing just fell off to one side. He too yelped as his arch landed along the hard edge of the sole and he began to hop about the room with his foot in his hands.

Sam remained perfectly still, hoping that someone . . . anyone . . . would work out how to walk in these things.

Pippin looked from the frozen Sam to the slithering Merry and then to a hopping Frodo and couldn’t help himself. He started to snigger. When the others turned to him in question the snigger became a giggle and the giggle grew into a guffaw. Merry had never been able to resist his cousin’s giggle and he began to snort and chuckle too, quickly followed by Frodo. Even Sam began to see the ludicrous side.

By the time Tom came to find out what had happened to his tardy supper guests all four hobbits were rolling on the floor helplessly, surrounded by an abandoned scattering of soft green slippers.


	35. Elrond's Table

_So tighten your belts and think with hope of the tables of Elrond’s house!  
The Fellowship Of The Ring_

**Elrond’s Table**

“Well Sam, what do you think of Master Elrond’s table?” Aragorn asked, popping an interesting looking pie on Sam’s plate.

“I reckon I haven’t seen a spread like this since Mr Bilbo’s leavin’ party.” He collected a tiny cucumber sandwich, then another because there weren’t more ‘an a mouthful in elven sandwiches.

Aragorn grinned, selecting a delicate strawberry tart for his own plate, its circumference a froth of whipped cream. Sam’s eyes widened and he added one to his own, already groaning plate.

He could see why Mr Bilbo liked it here but Sam missed his own kitchen. The food here was good but they didn’t go in much for ballast. About now he could devour a meat and tater pie with a good thick crust and lots of gravy.

He returned to his place at the little table set up especially for the hobbits. “When do you reckon we’ll be settin’ out, Mr Frodo?”

His master smiled weakly. “I don’t know, Sam and I’m not altogether sure I want to.”

Sam popped a sandwich into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Elves had all the time in the world but it’s the job soonest begun that’s soonest finished, his gaffer said. 

END


	36. Bowhood Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ellesar remembers a much loved toy.

Raised among elves, as a child I had few toys. I was not forbidden them, but with no other children in the valley I did not see them being played with and so never thought to ask for them. I remember that I did have a brightly coloured ball when I was very small and some beautiful carved animals. But they meant little to me and I would rather listen to Adar telling stories.

Later most of my toys were used to train for my future roll including my first archery bow. It had once belonged to Elladan and Adar offered to have another made especially for me, but I loved that bow. The peeling blue painted pattern was testament to the fact that Elladan and Elrohir used to 'borrow' each other's bows as elflings. To prevent arguments their father arranged for Elladan's to be decorated in blue and Elrohir's in yellow. I never asked what had happened to Elrohir's bow.

Once I grew too big to use the bow and was gifted with my own I buried Elladan's in a cupboard and never thought about it again. It was years later, when returning to Rivendell with a party of hobbits, that I saw it next. I was searching for Adar to consult him on something when I entered his private study.

There was my little bow, hanging on the wall behind his desk. It had obviously been well cared for in my absence. I do not know whether it hangs there still but I would like to think that perhaps it accompanied him to the West, in memory of the little boy he loved and raised as his own.


	37. Presents from Petunia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 2016 Yuletide4frodo lj group.

Only Petunia belongs to me. All other characters and settings belong to JRR Tolkien, along with the Oliphaunt poem. I hope he will forgive me for making free with his work. This ficlet also makes a passing nod to the TV series, Vicar of Dibley. The prompt for the tale was taken from Dickens. 

"Aunt Clara had, for years, laboured under the delusion that I was not only perpetually four years old, but also a girl."

_Only Petunia belongs to me. All other characters and settings belong to JRR Tolkien, along with the Oliphaunt poem. I hope he will forgive me for making free with his work._

**Presents from Petunia**

Frodo took one step into the parlour and halted. Bilbo was wearing a bemused expression and yards and yards of multi coloured knitting. The bemused expression was on his face, whereas the knitting was wrapped about his head once and around his neck and shoulders at least three times. From thence he had crossed the two ends over his chest and tied them behind his waist, leaving two tails that reached the floor and then trailed at least three feet behind him when he walked.

Frodo grinned. “Aunt Petunia?”

Bilbo returned the grin rather wickedly. “I put your parcel in your room.”

Frodo turned for his bedroom on reluctant feet. Saradoc had once described Aunt Petunia as being 'sparse' for, with advancing age, her memory and common sense seemed to grow thinner and thinner. Everybody loved her though, for she was the sweetest of souls and took great delight in making special Yule presents for every one of her many relatives, even some of her non-relatives.

Petunia was only related to Frodo's family tree by the slenderest of branches. She had, for years, laboured under the delusion that Frodo was not only perpetually four years old, but also a girl, so it was with some trepidation that he approached the large, gaily wrapped box in the centre of his bed. Upon closer examination Frodo established that what he had assumed was prettily patterned wrapping paper was actually one of Petunia's nightgowns which had been tied in place by a length of knitting wool the same shade of blue as one of the stripes in Bilbo's new scarf. Resorting to a penknife to cut the wool Frodo set aside the nightgown to return to Petunia by the next post. He suspected she was even now wondering where it had got to.

He lifted the box lid slowly, just in case. On one occasion, some years back, Aunt Petunia had posted him what she described as a 'nice ball'. It turned out to be a wasp nest and it's denizens, whilst drowsy from the cold, were nonetheless quite miffed by the time they reached Bag End. Even now, Frodo scratched absently at his arm. He was quite relieved, therefore, when nothing flew or crawled out of this box. For some moments he frowned, then lifted the present to examine it more closely.

It appeared to be wearing a floral dress, so upon first examination he assumed it was a doll. Over the years he had received several dolls from Aunt Petunia, each more exuberantly dressed than the last. All had made their way over to the Gamgee household eventually where first Daisy and now Marigold took great delight in lining them up on their beds. Upon closer examination it appeared that this was not actually a doll but some sort of mythical creature. 

Although each part was made from a different patterned scrap of fabric Frodo presumed it was an insect of some kind for it appeared to have eight legs. There were four fat legs sticking out at one side, a thin one at either end and two floppy ones on either side of what Frodo suddenly realised was a face . . . at least he assumed it was a face for it had a pair of mismatched buttons sewn on, presumably to represent eyes. 

He turned the creature over and over in his hands unaware that Bilbo, having grown suspicious of the silence after the wasp nest debacle, was now standing in the bedroom doorway. “It's an oliphaunt,” his uncle announced triumphantly. When Frodo only turned to stare at him in confusion Bilbo straightened his shoulders and began to quote …

 

Grey as a mouse,  
Big as a house,  
Nose like a snake,  
I make the earth shake,  
As I tramp through the grass;  
Trees crack as I pass.  
With horns in my mouth  
I walk in the South,  
Flapping big ears.  
Beyond count of years  
I stump round and round,  
Never lie on the ground,  
No even to die.  
Oliphaunt am I,  
Biggest of all,  
Huge, old, and tall.  
If ever you'd met me  
You wouldn't forget me.  
If you never do,  
You won't think I'm true;  
But old Oliphaunt am I,  
And I never lie.

In the light of this revelation Frodo re-examined his mathom, for mathom it surely was. “It isn't grey,” he observed. 

Bilbo gathered up the tails of his scarf. “It could best be described as festive. I wonder where she got the cloth from. I do hope she didn't cut up anyone's clothes. I'm sure I saw Esmeralda wearing a blouse made from that very same yellow fabric last time we visited.”

“It isn't as big as a house either.”

Bilbo snorted. “A fact which I have no doubt would please the postman.”

Frodo held up the creature by both of the thinner limbs. “Which of these is the nose like a snake do you think?”

“The one between the eyes, perhaps. Although one can never be sure with Petunia.”

“That means that these big red and green flaps must be ears,” Frodo surmised tentatively.

Bilbo chuckled. “She got one thing right, lad. We'll never forget old Oliphaunt.” 

“There are no horns either.” 

“Of course not. Your Aunt Petunia would not wish to traumatise a four year old.”

Frodo laid it carefully back in its box, replacing the lid firmly. “I think I have already been traumatised. This is definitely one for the storeroom. We wouldn't want to traumatise Marigold as well.”

Bilbo turned to leave, his arms full of multi-coloured knitting, but he gave one parting shot, “Don't forget to write and thank her.”

 

 

 


	38. The Silent Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Aragorn discover that they have something in common.

B2MeM 2017 prompt - “I love the silent hour of night, For blissful dreams may then arise, Revealing to my charmed sight What may not bless my waking eyes. “ Anne Brontë 

 

I don't own anything here, except my imagination. The world, events and characters were imagined by JRR Tolkien.

 

THE SILENT HOUR

“It's a cold day, Sam.” Aragorn dropped a soft blanket over Sam's shoulders even as the hobbit started at his quiet voice.

Sam pulled the edges close as the tall ranger folded long limbs to sit, cross-legged at his side, back toward the fire. “Thank you. 'Tis that. I reckon that wind blows straight down off the snow on them mountains. I don't see how folks could survive here in deep winter.”

Although hidden in this deep hollow of land they dare only set a small fire, for fear of unfriendly eyes. It gave off little light and even less heat, so everyone had set out their bedding as close to it as was safe. Sam had rolled himself in cloak and blanket like everyone else but sleep eluded him so he had got up as silently as possible just to try a pipe or two.

Aragorn fished about inside his tunic to produce pipe and the weed to pack it. He held out his pouch to Sam who was just knocking out the spent fillings of his own pipe. Sam accepted it, thumbing fragrant shreds into the bowl and accepting a light from the fire. For a moment both drew deeply, sitting in companionable silence.

About their small fire various sized bundles of cloaks and blankets indicated the presence most of the rest of the Fellowship. Of course, Legolas was not among them. Aragorn knew that the young elven prince was perched in the uppermost branches of a tree behind them. As always, Legolas took more than his share of time on guard duty and, although Gimli was the one officially on watch, he provided another pair of eyes.

Sam used the long stem of his pipe to point to a grey line of low tumbled wall nearby. “Looks like someone was tryin' to keep animals here once. Are there still farms?”

Aragorn shook his head. “Not for many years. The people who farmed this land left many generations ago. Hollin is an empty place.”

Sam took another draw on his pipe. “Tis thin soil. Only fit for sheep but I reckon you could make a livin' if you'd a mind to.”

Aragorn's lips quirked. “Were you thinking of moving, Sam? Is that what's keeping you awake?”

“No indeed, Sir!” Sam spluttered. “Move from the Shire? My Rose wouldn't allow it.” He looked down at his feet. “And she certain, sure, wouldn't come with me, even if she is a farmer's lass.”

Aragorn grew curious. “Who's Rose? You've not spoken of her before.” He wrapped cold fingers about the bole of his pipe, aware that above them Legolas had grown still.

Sam continued to look at his feet in silence for so long that Aragorn wondered if he had fallen asleep after all. Then the little gardener spoke, his voice only for the ranger's ears. “Rose is daughter to Farmer Cotton. He's got land just outside Hobbiton and, well, me and Rose have been walkin' out a bit. I was goin' to speak to her Da.” He paused to sigh. “But then Mr Gandalf came back and things got a bit mixed.”

“I imagine they did. Walking out sounds serious. Does your master know your plans.” 

Sam shook his head, his tone growing urgent. “No sir and I hope as how you won't tell him, neither. I told Rose we was goin' to be away for a while and she says she'll wait. I didn't tell her all, 'cause it's not my place to tell Mr Frodo's business. But I made a promise to Mr Gandalf and I aint had time to make one to Rose yet.”

Aragorn laid a gentle hand upon Sam's shoulder. “I understand, Sam. It is difficult to leave behind those we love, not knowing when or even if we will ever see them again. Is that what is keeping you awake?”

Sam's eyes widened in sudden insight. “Have you got a sweetheart waitin' for you too?”

Aragorn's face was turned away to the horizon, and for a few moments Sam thought he may have overstepped the mark. It was difficult enough to keep his place in the Shire when Mr Frodo was so free with his friendship, but it was harder still to know how to talk to wizards and elves and men. Mr Aragorn did not seem cross when he answered, however.

“I have set my sights upon the Lady Arwen. You saw her in Rivendell I think. She is the daughter of Lord Elrond.”

Sam was impressed. “The beautiful lady with the long dark hair? The one who sat under a canopy at the feast?”

“Aye. She has been compared to Luthien of old and I believe there is no-one alive among all the races so fair of face and heart.” 

Something in his wistful tone made Sam ask, “Have you an understandin' then? Was you thinkin' of getting' wed when you come back?”

Aragorn's shake of the head was barely visible. “We have what I think you would call an understanding. But her father has decreed that I may not wed her until I return, and I may not return until certain events have taken place. More than that I am not free to impart at present.”

Sam drew on his pipe, bending to examine it more closely when it produced no smoke. “Seems like we're both in a bit of a pickle, if you don't mind me saying so, Mr Aragorn, Sir.”

Aragorn held out a glowing twig but Sam shook his head, knocking out the ashes of his pipe on a nearby stone. “I reckon I've had enough for tonight.” He stifled a yawn and added another branch to the fire.

“Why don't you take some rest, Sam? You look tired and your watch is not until near noon.” Aragorn touched the twig to his own pipe, hoping for a couple more draws.

Sam only shuffled uncomfortably however. “I'm not sure I want to sleep. I dream, see.”

Aragorn thought he could see only too well. “You dream of Rose and it hurts that you are so far apart.”

“Aye, Sir. I could almost wish for bad dreams but most often I see Rosie and that hurts even more. You'd think after all we've been through and what's maybe still to come that I'd have fodder enough for nightmares. But when I close my eyes all I see is my Rose.” Sam tried to sound nonchalant when he asked, “Is it the same with you?”

Aragorn scraped the ashes from his pipe with a small knife. “Do I dream of Rose Cotton?” he asked with a twinkle.

Sam snorted. “Now, don't you go makin' fun of me. You know what I mean. Do you dream of your Lady Arwen?”

Aragorn tucked away his pipe, his tone again serious. “I do. And I thank the Valar for that pleasure for as long as she is before me I am reminded why I have agreed to undertake this quest.” He reached aside to squeeze Sam's arm gently. “Take heart from your dreams, Sam, however bittersweet. There may come a time when they are all that stands between you and the darkness.” He nodded to the small bundle of blankets that was Frodo. “I could almost wish that he had such dreams. But then, perhaps not.”

Sam's wide yawn prevented him from asking Aragorn to elaborate upon that observation and the ranger chuckled. “I think you had best take to your blankets, Sam. Your master needs you awake and rested this evening.” 

“Yes sir. I think I can, now. Will you be takin' some rest too?”

Aragorn stood, helping his smaller companion to his feet and accepting the return of his blanket. “One more round of the perimeter and then I will.”

Sam tiptoed to his place next to Frodo and rolled himself in his blanket but just before he settled down he whispered. “Good day to you Mr Aragorn. Sweet dreams, Sir.”

Aragorn nodded before turning to look up into the tree. His searching eyes soon found the answering glitter of Legolas' gaze and the elven warrior's sueded voice was cobweb soft. “The perimeter is secure. Take your own advice and dream while you may.”

 

END


	39. Foresight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every married couple, no matter how harmonious, has that one topic that they will never, ever agree upon. Elrond and Celebrian are no exception.

I don't own these people. They just clambered into my life from the pages of JRR Tolkien's books and they won't leave me alone. This is fanfic written for B2MeM 2017.

 

“Foresight can become a tyrant.” It was at that moment in their exchange that Reason ran for cover.

Celebrian spun about so fast that silver hair whipped in her husband's face, causing him to draw back quickly as he sought to preserve his eyesight. “What did you say? Are you calling my mother a tyrant? She would seek only to assist us in choosing the correct path for our children.” She stalked around the bed, arms filled with gowns.

Elrond blinked and the words were out of his mouth before consideration. “That is not what I said but if you insist upon making that association … Galadriel is her brother's sister after all.” 

Celebrian threw down the gown she had been so carefully folding and it pooled in a cringing heap upon the coverlet. “You had to go there,” she replied hotly as she set hands upon her hips.

“You were there before me.” Elrond retorted and he made a chopping motion with his hand. “I forbid you to use that mirror of hers. Our children choose their own paths.” His brows drew together, eyes the colour of those thunder clouds gathering even now about Imladris' surrounding peaks and, in the valley below, creatures began to seek cover.

Suddenly aware that all other conversation throughout the large house had stilled expectantly, Celebrian moderated her voice, although it had all the softness of a glacier grinding rocks. “You forbid? Now who is the tyrant? Of course they must choose for themselves. But we may be able to help them along if we know their direction in advance.”

By now they stood either side of the large marital bed, its covers strewn with Celebrian's gowns, selected and then discarded. With each exchange the heap had grown higher and Elrond had every intention of escaping before it reached the level of his chin. 

This argument had been rumbling on for weeks, ever since Celebrian had declared her intention of asking the children to join her for her next visit to Lothlorien. He did not object to them seeing their grandparents, but Celebrian had let slip that she would be asking her mother to scry their futures in her mirror during the visit. 

Aware that foresight was a double edged tool, Elrond was more inclined to let his offspring accept life as it presented itself. Older than Celebrian, he had lived long enough to believe there were some twists of fate it was better not to know about in advance. Indeed, even Galadriel would say that bad fortune foreseen could sometimes be brought about, simply by trying to avoid it. To Celebrian, who had lived predominantly within the sheltering borders of Imladris and Lothlorien, life held little intimation of any future terror and she saw no need to fear her tomorrow. 

Now Elrond drew a deep breath as he made a conscious effort to smooth his features and tone. The result, however, was a granite mask and a voice as still as a deep drowned quarry, and just as dangerous. “Very well. You may do as you wish. The children are mature enough to choose whether or not to accompany you. I will not stand in their way but, and mark me well in this, the decision about the scrying must be theirs.” 

He spun upon his heel and strode from their bedroom before Celebrian could draw breath for another retort but the door slammed loudly behind him, echoed by a sudden clap of thunder overhead.

Later Elrond was to ponder long upon the two-edged nature of foresight for, as it happened, all three children decided not to accompany their mother to Lothlorien on that fateful journey through the Redhorn Pass.


	40. Tea At Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose and Frodo share a late night pot of tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own anything. These characters climbed out of JRR Tolkien's books one day and have been clambering about in my head, causing chaos, ever since.

Sam and Rose followed the Shire tradition of going to bed with the sun and rising with the lark and Frodo envied them their untroubled rest. He had discovered that his own was hard won and safer taken in short naps during the daylight hours. Whilst devoid of voices, the night was crowded with memories that scratched at the windows and rumbled across the chimney pot. He preferred to spend his nights sitting in his study by the light of a blazing fire and several candles.

He glanced up from his writing now, to greet his own visage reflected in the window, and surprised himself with a smile as he remembered Bell Gamgee placing a single candle in her kitchen window on winter evenings to guide Hamfast home. Bilbo often used to gift the Gamgee's with a dozen fine beeswax candles, knowing that tallow was sometimes all they could afford. Bilbo himself had been quite extravagant with candles and whenever Frodo smelled honey he was reminded of evenings with his uncle, pouring over some ancient half translated text. The memories themselves were not what drew his smile, but rather the joy of being able to recall them, for there was a time when he had thought them lost forever.

His gaze dropped to the page before him with it's scattered fringe of papers. These were his own notes and needed no translation, other than that required from mind to hand. Merry and Pippin's reports were not required for this part of the tale, which was a blessing for Merry's hand was careless to say the least. 

He was considering again whether to give the Mountains of Shadow their correct name, Ephel Duath, when a distant hiccup announced the awakening of little Elanor. He paused, as he always did when he heard that humble reminder that life went on. The hiccup was followed by a thin wail and Rose's murmured reply. Frodo set down his pen. Sometimes Rose fed her daughter in bed but more often, of late, she had taken to padding about the smial. He suspected she was keeping an eye on him and yet it did not offend, but rather made him feel cherished. Sure enough, a few minutes later, he heard the soft open and close of the bedroom door followed by the slap of bare feet on bare tile.

“Hello, Mr Frodo. Still writin' I see. Do you fancy a cup of tea?” Rose appeared in the doorway, hair unbound and with her daughter at her breast, cradled beneath her shawl.

Frodo smiled, slipping from his chair to usher her toward the kitchen. “I'll make it, Rose. You have your hands full.”

Rose's answering grin was brighter than any rack of candles. “Bless you, Sir. But I've 'come to be a dab hand at doin' stuff one handed of late. Ely don't take kindly to waitin' while I fill a kettle.”

“Let me help this time. You and Sam look after me all day and even I know how to make a pot of tea.” Frodo poked the banked range into life and carried their big black kettle to the pump. “I expect you'll be glad once Elanor no longer needs feeding during the night.”

“I'll not deny I miss the sleep but I'd not miss this special time with her. Soon enough she'll be feedin' herself.” Rose settled herself at the table, tweaking her shawl to smile down at her babe, who was grunting contentedly, one tiny hand kneading at her mother's breast as she suckled.

Frodo set the filled kettle upon the range and began collecting tea things. “It is a beautiful time for any family,” he offered wistfully, as he set out two of the kitchen mugs. Since Rose and Sam had moved in they had reached an accommodation . . . cups and saucers in the main rooms but mugs in the kitchen. If Frodo had his way he would have been happy with mugs in any room but Rose would not hear of it, insisting that Bag End demanded certain standards.

Rose watched as he collected the milk jug from the pantry. “Ain't you never wanted this for yourself?” she asked, nodding to the bundle cradled in the crook of her arm.

For some time Frodo only arranged crockery but when he ran out of things to do he sat down opposite her. Used by now to his considered silences, Rose waited but she was surprised to see his eyes misty when he finally met her gaze, and he had to clear his throat before speaking.

“I have always loved faunts. In Brandy Hall there were many and I used to volunteer to keep them amused. Then came Merry followed by Pippin. I once looked forward to having babies of my own one day, dreaming of showing them the Shire as Bilbo did for me or sitting them on my lap to read them stories.” He glanced down at his hands, folded upon the table, and lifted his right to display the three fingers. “But this put an end to such dreams.”

Rose's eyes widened. “Why ever do you say that, Mr Frodo? Tis only a finger. You're not givin' credit to the lasses if you think that. Tis a poor one who would be put off by a missing finger. You're a good catch and if you need Bag End to yourself you've only to say. Me and Sam will find somewhere else to live easy enough. I reckon the Gaffer would love to have us.”

Frodo smiled gently. “I would never dream of turning you and Sam out of Bag End. The fault doesn't lie with them but with me.” He paused a moment, turning to check the progress of the kettle before continuing. “I know Sam has told you about our journey but, knowing him, I suspect he has protected you from the worst of it.”

Elanor shuffled and Rose rearranged her clothing before switching her daughter to the other breast. “I asked him not to leave out anythin' but I expect you're right. I do know your poor body took an awful beatin'.”

Frodo shook his head. “If only that were all.” He paused a moment to consider how best to explain to someone who had never come in contact with 'magic'. “Do you believe that there is more to a person than their body?”

“Aye. Of course. There's somethin' inside of the body. I've heard you and Sam call it a fae but I just call it a person's heart. It's what moves everythin' else, just like a real heart moves the blood.” She nodded toward the range. “The kettle's boiled.”

Frodo stood, taking a cloth from the shelf to lift the kettle from the heat and pouring a little of the water into the teapot, swirling it before tipping it into the sink and returning to the table. “That's a good way of putting it, Rose. Well, Lord Sauron's ring did something to my heart.” He measured tea into the pot and added the boiling water. “When he made his ring he put some of his 'heart' into that ring. I don't know how.” He shuddered. “When I wore that ring his heart touched mine and his was totally evil.” He sat down, pouring milk into their mugs. 

Rose's eyes widened. “Then why ever did you put it on?”

Frodo allowed himself a wry smile. “At first I didn't understand how it worked. Then, as we drew closer to the dark lands, it seemed that I did not even need to put it on for it to work its evil upon me.” He ran hands over his face before drawing a deep breath. “It seemed to twine itself about my fae and when the ring was destroyed it took some of me with it.”

Rose frowned. “But you don't seem no different. A bit wiser and more generous than you was, I hear. Not that you wasn't both of those before,” she hastened to add. “And a deal softer than is good for you some would say.”

Frodo poured the tea, pushing a mug across the table to her, along with the honey pot. “Definitely wiser I think. Does that make me softer? I don't know. Perhaps, having faced my own failings, I'm more willing to accept them in others.” He stirred his tea and raised it to his nose to appreciate its sharp fragrance.

Rose stirred in some honey and then took a sip from her own mug. “I still don't see how that means you can't get wed and be a da.”

Frodo sighed. “I'm tired, Rose. Oh, I try to hide it but I just don't have the strength to win a maid and bring up fauntlings. Not just the physical strength. You've seen me when the memories overtake me. It's my fae that is weak. I wouldn't have the strength to nourish their minds and hearts as I should and that would be unfair to them.”

“You've always got time for Ely. She loves her Uncle Frodo.” Rose sensed Elanor falling from her breast and glanced down to see that she had drifted into contented asleep. She adjusted her gown and wrapped her daughter more closely within the shawl.

Frodo managed a genuine smile this time. “It's easier if I know I can hand her back when I've given all I can. Parents don't have that option.”

“I sometimes wish for that too,” Rose replied with a half smile. Then she stood, coming around to his side of the table and reaching down to deposit her daughter into Frodo's surprised arms. “I don't reckon I'll ever understand you, but you should have some time with Ely at least.”

“Thank you.” His smile softened as he stroked the golden fuzz on Elanor's head. If only he could be as content as she.

Rose's dimples appeared. “Aye. Well I need the privy. Tis all this sippin' tea at midnight. You can help me change her when I come back. Or you could just hand her back,” she added with a twinkle.

She bent to kiss Elanor's head and then, to Frodo's continued surprise, dropped a kiss on his crown too, a mother's benediction,before leaving the room.


	41. A Chip Off The Old Block

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gloin begins his son's training in the cutting of gemstones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own anything. Gloin and Gimli belong to JRR Tolkien.

“On silver necklaces they strung The flowering stars, On crowns they hung The dragon-fire, in twisted wire They meshed the light of moon and sun.” JRR Tolkien, The Hobbit

 

A CHIP OFF THE OLD BLOCK.

“What's this one, Da?” Gimli held up what looked to him to be a lump of dirty grey quartz.

Gloin's bushy brows rose, his voice harsh. “Don't drop it! That, laddie, is a diamond.”

Gimli jumped so suddenly that he almost did drop the stone. Only generations of inherited respect for the cutting of gems enabled him to retain his grip, and he looked down at the unprepossessing stone in his gloved palm. “If elves think these are special I'm not surprised that Ma says they're touched in the head.” But he did hand back the diamond when Gloin demanded its return with an imperious wave of his hand.

“Well, it's not worth much like that, but once it's been cut and charged properly . . . now that's a different matter.” Gloin drew out a shallow drawer and Gimli gasped in awe.

On a cloth of deepest blue sat row upon row of sparkling, glittering, clear diamonds. Gloin nodded proudly. “Aye. These were charged last night. And a more perfect night you couldn't find. The moon was full and not a cloud in the sky.” His eyes took on an avaricious gleam. “That elven kinglet will pay a pretty penny for gems like these. And if not he, then the men away down in Gondor are not averse to them either.”

Gimli frowned. “I've been told about cutting but what's, 'charging', Da?”

“Do they teach you nothing practical in that school of yours?” Gloin tutted, then selected a cut gem and held it up to the light. “A diamond is just a diamond unless you set it out in the moonlight a while. Then it soaks up the glow and comes to life. Look here.”

Gimli allowed his father to draw him close and both looked up into the faceted jewel. Sure enough, when turned at just the right angle, a glimmer of moonlight was seen, caught right at the heart of the stone. “It's beautiful, Da. Will you teach me how to cut and charge them one day?”

Gloin smiled, clapping his son on the back. “Aye, laddie. That I will. Now that we have our mountain back there'll be plenty to practice on.” Then he frowned as he considered the value of the diamonds before him. “But I think we'll start you off on a few bits of rose quartz and work our way up to diamonds.”

END


	42. First Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four hobbits get together in Minas Tirith for a very early first breakfast. Written in response to the prompt, 'Things that go bump in the night' from Back to Middle earth Month 2017.

I don't own the hobbits, Minas Tirith or their hazardous adventures. They all belong to JRR Tolkien and I'm only filling in the corners of his tale.

-0-

Merry came awake so suddenly that his eyes were still closed when his feet touched the floor and still bleary when he stubbed his toe on the leg of the table. “Ouch!”

“Wah?” Across the room Sam rolled over and raised a tousled head but Merry just waved him back down. 

“I'm alright. I just need the privy,” Merry offered by way of explanation as he rubbed his toe.

Sam needed no prompting, pulling the covers over his head once more. Merry sighed as he noted that Pippin's bed was empty, although Frodo had not even moved throughout the exchange. Only needing a moment's consideration Merry drew on his jacket over his borrowed nightshirt and headed off down the stairs.

Gandalf's house in Minas Tirith was small but comfortable enough. Gandalf had his own bedroom on the floor below and the four hobbits had been set up on the top floor. Merry yawned as he tiptoed past Gandalf's door and continued down to the kitchen. Once there, were it not for the rack of lit candles, he would have thought himself alone. Then a mop of brown curls popped up from behind the table, followed by Pippin's surprised face.

“Hello Merry. Couldn't you sleep either?” Pippin stood, a bowl of mixed eggshells and raw eggs in one hand and a wet cloth in the other.

Merry scowled at his younger cousin. “I was sleeping just fine until something woke me up,” he hissed.

Pippin tried one of his most endearing smiles. “Sorry about that. I fancied some scrambled eggs but I dropped the basin.” He glanced down at the contents of the bowl. “I suppose I could switch to bacon and mushrooms.”

“Have you any idea what time it is?” Merry asked, around another yawn, as he sat at the table.

Pippin tipped the contents of the bowl into the rubbish pail and began to rinse basin and cloth in the sink. “It was four o'clock when I came down so it's probably about half past now. Why?”

“Why? Why? Because it's the middle of the night and you're supposed to be sleeping. I'm supposed to be sleeping! The whole of the rest of the world is sleeping.” Merry scratched his behind. “I like to eat as well as the next hobbit but it's a bit early, even for first breakfast.”

“I'm sorry, although you know there are some guards on duty, so they'd have to be awake,” Pippin offered as he wrung out the cloth. Then his face suddenly grew serious. “A dream woke me up and I thought a little something to eat would help me to go back to sleep.”

Merry blinked, coming wide awake now. He had looked after his cousin for most of Pippin's life, even though they lived at opposite ends of the Shire. “A dream? What was it about?”

Pippin bit the inside of his cheek as he picked up a knife and began to trim rind off a slice of bacon. “Sometimes I dream of his voice,” he replied softly.

“Who's voice?”

Pippin tackled another slice, adding it to the first in a large frying pan and then tossing in some little mushrooms. “That Sauron chap.” He shuddered. “I dream about that palantir thingy and his voice.” Pippin's voice was barely more than a whisper and Merry was disturbed to see the glitter of unshed tears in his eyes.

Merry stood, going to the range to poke at the coals. “I think we're all going to have bad dreams for a long time, Pip.”

Pippin added another handful of mushrooms and a knob of lard to the pan and set it atop the now glowing range. “Do you have them too, then?”

Merry pulled plates from the cupboard and began to lay the table for two. It was clearly going to be some time before either of them would be going back to bed, if at all. While Pippin watched the pan he began to slice and butter some bread. “Sometimes I dream I'm stabbing that Witch King but the Lady Eowyn isn't there to finish the job,” he confessed.

Pippin immediately switched from feeling sorry for himself to being concerned for his older cousin. “Oh Merry, I'm so sorry. It must have been awful.”

Merry shook his head on a faint smile. That was so like the Pip he knew and loved. “I'll be alright. They're just dreams after all. They can't hurt us.” He arranged the buttered bread on a plate and poured milk into cups.

Pippin turned back to the pan, turning the gently sizzling bacon and mushrooms. “Right.” His voice carried little conviction, however. “My head says that Sauron and the Witch King are gone but my dreams don't seem to be listening.”

Merry sat down again, tugging his jacket closer against the night's chill. “Mine neither. Gandalf said they'll fade with time, though.”

Pippin brought the pan to the table, dishing out the mushrooms and bacon between them. If Merry noticed that Pip gave himself a larger portion of mushrooms he chose not to mention it. “At least we don't have Sam and Frodo's dreams.”

Pippin paused in his chewing. “There is that. I wish Bilbo had not found that ring and we could go back to the way things were. We could have been sitting in The Ivy Bush now, with a nice half pint.”

Merry snorted. “No we couldn't. The Ivy Bush closes at ten.” He took a big swallow of milk. “Anyway, I'm not sure that I would want to go back to how I was,” he surprised himself by confessing.

Pippin considered. “You may be right. I've changed and I don't think I've changed altogether for the worse . . . apart from the dreams.”

“I'm sorry, Pip.”

“No need to be sorry. It's not exactly your fault, is it?”

“No. It's mine,” came Frodo's sleepy voice from the doorway. Sam was at his side.

“Hello Frodo. You're up early,” Pippin offered with a sunny smile.

“The smell of bacon woke me up and then the voices.”

Pippin's brows rose. “Voices?”

Frodo's lips quirked. “Your voices, you goose.” Then he grew serious. “But I am sorry. It's my fault both of you have those dreams. I should not have roped you into that awful adventure.”

Sam had slipped past and was now examining the pan. “Begin' your pardon, Mr Frodo, but as I see it we could go blamin' each other, or we could blame Mr Bilbo for findin' the ring or Gollum for losin' it. We could blame King Isildur for not destroyin' it and Lord Elrond for not makin' him. We could even blame the elves for makin' those rings. But my gaffer always says lookin' back is only good for teachin' you what not to do in the future. You can't change it and you can only go on from where you are now.” Ever practical he added, “Considerin' that, as we're up, maybe you'd like a bit of breakfast, Mr Frodo?”

Frodo sighed. “We may as well, Sam. And your gaffer is right, as always.” Then his eyes grew distant. “The moving finger writes and having writ, moves on. Not all your piety or wit can call it back to cancel half a line.”

Merry spoke around a mouthful of mushroom. “Is that one of Bilbo's bits of doggerel? He always knew how to turn a phrase.”

Frodo smiled, pulling up a chair to the table and slicing some more bread. “I think I heard it from him but he probably translated it from some elven text.”

“The movin' finger writes. I like that. I'd like to learn it.” Sam threw more bacon and mushrooms in the pan.

Frodo smiled. “I'll write it out for you, although whether you'll be able to read it with my present writing skills is another matter.” His smile grew rueful as he stared down at his maimed hand.

“You'll get there, Mr Frodo. I reckon we all will, with time.”

-0-

In the chamber above Gandalf rolled onto his back and folded his hands upon his chest as he listened. Only yesterday he had been considering intervening to get the hobbits to speak of and examine the traumas of their journeys, but it seemed that they had taken matters into their own hands in the best possible way for hobbits . . . with friendship and food.

END


	43. Every One and No One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone belongs to JRR Tolkien and no one belongs to me.

EVERY ONE AND NO ONE

Everyone knew that Bilbo Baggins told a great tale. Every one of Hobbiton's children knew his story of the great dragon, Smaug, by heart. Nearly every one of the adults in the Ivy Bush Tavern could recite Bilbo's adventure, from dwarven tea party to epic battle. Everyone was of the opinion that a story was the only good thing to come from adventuring, other than treasure. Everyone said that Bilbo Baggins came home with a chest filled with gold, and everyone took both treasure and story to be no more than the product of an over-educated mind. Everyone in the Shire knew that too much education could be bad for a body.

No one outside Bag End knew that Frodo Baggins could also weave a good tale. Not one of Hobbiton's bairns would ever lose sleep over stories of giant spiders. No one walked home, trembling in the dark, from the Ivy Bush, for Frodo never spoke of black clad riders, evil wizards, orcs and dark lords. No one accused Deputy Mayor Baggins of spinning tall tales. On the other hand, no one thought him an ordinary hobbit either. 

Only after he disappeared that second time did everyone begin to ask what no one had dared before.

Now Sam opened Frodo's huge, red bound book and No One spoke in the Ivy Bush as Every One leaned in to listen.

END


	44. Doom and Taters

I don't own a thing. I'm just pondering on the ponderings of JRR Tolkien. 

 

Doom and Taters

“The gods were gathered on guarded heights, of doom and death deep they pondered. Sun they rekindled, and silver Moon they set to sail on seas of stars.” Frodo's voice was scarce more than a whisper, blending with the sigh of grass stroked by a summer wind and the soft flutter of leaves in the trees about them.

Sam frowned a moment but remained content to lie back at his master's side. “That's a big thought, Mr Frodo.”

His reply was a chuckle and Sam smiled to hear that which he had thought lost forever. “It certainly is, Sam, but I can't take credit for it. It was penned many ages ago.” Like Sam, he lay upon his back on the hill which sheltered South Coomb farm. Above them the stars winked in and out and the moon sailed serenely through them, like a ship on some ethereal sea. 

Sam listened to Rose Cotton's voice somewhere in the smial below, berating one of her brothers for stealing the last egg, and smiled. Life with Rose Cotton was not going to be boring, of that he was sure. “I reckon I wouldn't want to be one of them gods. My gaffer says he don't hold with ponderin' too deep.”

“Perhaps he's right, Sam. But you must agree, those gods did a fine job.” 

“They did that but I think I'll leave them to their ponderin' and kindlin'. I've had enough doom and death and I'd rather ponder the plantin' of taters.”

Frodo smiled as Earendil's ship peeped over the horizon to commence his nightly journey. He wondered if it had a swan prow, like those that sailed from the Grey Havens into the West.

Mrs Cotton shouted up to them. “Sam, Mr Frodo . . . don't you go fallin' asleep up there. There's tea in the pot and yer beds will be more comfy than that damp grass.”

Sam clambered up, holding out a hand to help a still smiling Frodo to his feet. “We're comin' Mrs Cotton.”

END


	45. Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all present our masks to the daytime world but in the darkness of the night a mask is useless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters and world belong to JRR Tolkien. This is fanfic.

Blankets were spread upon the lush grass of the party field around the stripling mallorn tree. All the residents of New Row and Bag End were present. Some lounged amongst the remains of their picnics, filling up the corners, and others had settled down for an afternoon snooze in the sunshine.

Sam watched, as Frodo chased a giggling gaggle of faunts, smiling when the children turned the tables, overwhelming Frodo to drag him to the ground, where they proceeded to tickle him mercilessly.

Rose stroked her husband's ear with a grass stalk, leaning in to whisper, “Penny for them.”

“I was just thinkin' as how I never thought to see that scene again. I was rememberin' Mr Frodo playin' with his cousins and me before . . . well, you know.”

“Before the troubles? I wish I'd known him better then.”

Sam smiled wistfully. “He was the merriest hobbit I ever knew.” He waved at the folk scattered about the field. “They think everythin's back to normal.”

Rose wrapped her arms about him and kissed the tip of his ear. “I'll check the oil lamp in his room when we go in.”

-0-

“No! You shall not have it! It is mine!”

Sam and Rose came awake with a start, scrambling out of bed even as Elanor started to fret in her cradle. In what had become on instinctive routine, Rose drew on her dressing gown and made for Elanor while Sam dragged on his own gown and made for Frodo's room.

Sam drew a deep breath as he laid a hand upon Frodo's bedroom door handle, then he stepped into the darkness beyond. He blinked, trying to discern shapes in the black interior. The lamp upon the bedside table must have burned out. Deep gasping breaths came from the direction of the bed but Sam had to pick his way by memory to the window. There he opened the curtains and pale moonlight slipped into the room.

Frodo sat in the middle of the bed, his hair wild and eyes wilder. He clutched at the jewel hung about his neck and Sam knew enough to approach slowly, his voice as gentle as he could make it.

“Tis alright, Mr Frodo. Tis gone forever. You did it. Now here's your Sam come to look after you. Lets find you a fresh nightshirt and then I'll fetch you a cup of tea. It will all seem better after a cup of tea . . .”

END


	46. Rainy Teatime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seems even the West has its share of inclement weather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JRR Tolkien owns the lot. I'm just poking around in the corners.

Frodo sighed as Bilbo began to snore in his armchair by the fire. He loved Bilbo dearly, but his ancient uncle was quite content to spend his days in writing and dozing when inclement weather blew in. Frodo, would rather spend his days exploring this new land that he could see wavering behind the rivulets of rain on the window of their cosy little cottage.

He watched as a couple of tall elves flitted across the path before New Bag End, no doubt on their way to somewhere interesting. From their speed, Frodo relished the insight that even elves did not always enjoy being out in the rain. It seemed wet clothes were uncomfortable, whatever your height.

Before his arrival Frodo had always imagined the West to be a place of perpetual sunshine and clear blue skies. It had taken but a couple of weeks to shatter that image. When he mentioned his disappointment to Elrond he had smiled. “We must have rain to feed the trees. Without it we would be living in a desert,” tilting his head in the way that some elves did before adding, “And surely you would agree that all nature is beautiful, even the rain.”

Bilbo shifted, muttering something incomprehensible in his sleep and Frodo sighed again. Rain was not so beautiful when it trapped one indoors indefinitely. Upon a whim he opened the door, throwing a heavy cloak about his shoulders before stepping into the little, ivy covered porch.

Somewhere elves were singing, their voices blending almost seamlessly with the melody of the rain and lifting Frodo from his ennui. He drew in a deep breath. The air was chilly but the breeze must have been coming off the sea because it held the sweet, sharp tang of seaweed and salt, mingled with the musty undertones of damp earth and the high, clear sweetness of mint from the little herb garden beneath their kitchen window.

Rain blew in shimmering curtains and Frodo listened to it gurgling in the gutter alongside the path. It dripped from the eaves to splash in ever widening puddles and pattered on the leaves of the ivy that twined about the porch. Despite the overcast sky, one stray sunbeam was captured and fractured by a thousand drops of water so that Frodo was reminded of Gimli's descriptions of the glittering caves of Helms Deep.

He held out a hand to feel the tiny pinprick tattoo of a hundred drops on his palm. Turning it this way and that he watched as the steam curled upward and then slowed as his flesh was cooled by the deluge. Tucking his hand back into the warmth of his cloak he looked up, surprised to see Lord Elrond, statue like just a few feet away, watching him. Like Frodo, he wore a long, heavy cloak, oiled against the worst of the deluge.

“Good afternoon, Frodo. The weather is a little inclement for travelling abroad so I thought you would appreciate some company, but perhaps you were intending to take a walk after all. I would be happy to accompany you if that is your wish.”

Frodo grinned, stepping aside to wave his friend through the door. “I decided to see what you found so appealing about rain.”

“And what did you discover?” Rain dripped unheeded from the tip of Elrond's nose.

“That I enjoy it better from the other side of a pane of glass. I think I'd rather have a cup of tea if you would care to join me.”

Elrond chuckled as he ducked inside, pausing to offer Frodo a cloth wrapped bundle from beneath his sheltering cloak. “I believe it is tea time.” 

Both smiled as Bilbo's drowsy voice called, “Frodo, is that someone at the door?”

“Yes, uncle. It is Elrond and he has brought a cake.”

Bilbo's voice was drowsy no longer. “How uncommonly decent of him. I'll go and put on the kettle. The lady Celebrian always bakes such lovely cakes.”

It seemed there was something to be said for rainy afternoons in the West after all.

END


	47. A Hobbit Footwarmer

I don't own anyone or anything, other than my imagination. The rest belongs to JRR Tolkien.

“Hello, Frodo.” Aragorn settled upon the bench at Frodo's side within the shelter of a little pavilion, at the foot of the sweeping lawns to the side of the large house. Here it was possible to watch the winter sunset whilst still being protected from the worst of the winter weather.

Frodo smiled up at him. “Hello. You're back.” His blue gaze grew pensive. “Elladan said yesterday that you had gone to check on something beyond the borders. I'm pleased to see you returned whole.”

Aragorn's shook his head. “I was in no great danger, Frodo. The paths I was tasked with surveying were some of those least likely to be used by our enemies. Do not fear for me. I have walked the trails through these mountains since I was a very young man.”

A huge marmalade cat leapt nimbly from the low wall surrounding a fountain and picked her way across a bare winter flowerbed toward the pair. Frodo immediately forgot his dark thoughts and even Aragorn smiled. It always amazed him that a creature so large and fat could be so dainty on her feet. He had seen smaller bears. The cat made straight for Frodo, insinuating herself between and around his legs, and the Ringbearer reached out absently to let his hand slide along the length of her broad back.

Aragorn's grin widened. “I see that you have met Tithen. And a more unlikely name for this huge creature I could not imagine.” He held out a hand and Tithen leaned in to sniff before butting her head into Aragorn's palm. He stroked her obligingly and Tithen purred loudly as she walked a figure of eight around two sets of legs, earning herself caresses from two hands.

Frodo scratched a finger beneath the cat's snowy chin and was rewarded with an even deeper rumbling purr as she rubbed warmly against his exposed legs. “Lord Elrond introduced us yesterday. Do you know who she belongs to? She has hardly left my side, other than to slip out through the window for a few minutes occasionally.”

Tithen apparently decided that she had been stroked enough and promptly sat down upon Frodo's foot, wrapping her long tail neatly about her own feet. Frodo did not object, for his feet were growing cold and Tithen was warm.

Aragorn watched with continuing amusement. “Elrohir would tell you that she belongs to him but if Tithen could speak I think she would tell you otherwise. I do not think anyone could own Tithen.”

The huge cat looked up at Aragorn for a moment, her whiskers twitching in apparent agreement. Then she turned to watch a blackbird cheeky enough to sit upon the edge of the top basin of the fountain, just within Tithen's striking distance. Frodo felt the cat's weight shift slightly and feared that she would leap at the bird, but Tithen was wise. She knew that with just one slip upon landing, she would be nose first in icy water. She was also mindful of the rules set by the master of the valley. Birds, fish and mice were off her menu. Not that she complained over much. The kitchens here provided some very choice food. 

Elrohir had once tried to put her on a diet, for the only sleek thing about Tithen was her fur, as Frodo was discovering. (His foot was tingling and would soon be numb.) Tithen was a wily cat, however, and when she did not seem to be growing any smaller Elrohir decided to follow her. He soon discovered that his pet was, in fact, the pet of half the valley. She stalked a daily round from elf to elf and was fed tidbits by each. It was clear that Tithen would be dictated to by no-one, so Elrohir gave up trying. 

Aragorn slipped his hands between his knees to warm them. “Are you not cold, Frodo?”

Frodo grinned. “I am getting rather chilled I must confess. Despite my foot warmer here.” He reached out again to stroke Tithen's head, almost level with his waist. “I am beginning to feel a little hungry too. You don't suppose it is teatime yet, do you?”

Aragorn stood, offering a hand to Frodo. Tithen remained seated upon Frodo's foot however, twitching her whiskers disdainfully when he tried to wiggle his toes to dislodge her. Frodo looked up at the tall ranger for assistance but Aragorn only chuckled at her antics. Frodo cleared his throat. “Tithen . . . nice Tithen. Do you think you could get up so that I can go in to tea?”

Tithen's ears twitched this time but she remained firmly where she was. Aragorn finally took pity upon the small hobbit, mouthing silently, “Offer her food.”

Frodo stroked the marmalade head again, adopting his most coaxing tone. “You are invited too, of course. They usually provide some nice chicken sandwiches and there may even be cream.”

“Cream” was the word that did it. Tithen lifted her huge bulk and Frodo sighed with relief as he accepted Aragorn's proffered hand. When he arrived at the tea table a few minutes later, Frodo was still limping a little but Tithen stepped up, as daintily as ever, to her saucer of cream.


	48. Family Reshaped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet moment between Frodo and Elrond on the ship to the West

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything belongs to JRR Tolkien and this is non-profit fanfic.

“Do you not sleep, Frodo?” Having abandoned the more formal robes of the Lord of Imladris for simple riding leathers, Elrond settled himself, cross-legged upon the deck next to Frodo.

“I felt a little better and did not wish to miss any more of our journey.” 

Shortly after leaving the Havens Frodo had been taken ill. It seemed that he was not yet close enough to the virtue of the Western Isles to be spared one of his anniversary illnesses, if he ever would. Now, at least, he felt a little better, whether by the passage of miles or time even Gandalf could not say.

“I am pleased that you have recovered sufficiently to enjoy this.” Elrond took a deep breath, his lips bowing in a small smile that Frodo found himself mirroring.

The sky was black, pierced with a million, million stars. They twinkled in solitary splendour here or were gathered in clouded clusters there. Frodo had long since ceased to search for the familiar constellations, choosing rather to simply absorb the wonder of it. High above, a huge silver moon, full and round, glowed proudly amongst this bounty like some southern potentate presiding over his harem.

Far distant the horizon was lost in the deeper dark of advancing cloud, a presage of rain at dawn, but the sea was so still that moon and stars were mirrored almost perfectly upon its surface. To Frodo it seemed that he floated in a ship among the stars themselves, like Earendil and Elwing. That thought brought him back to Elrond at his side.

As though sensing the direction of his thoughts Elrond pointed heavenward. “There sails Earendil.”

“Do you miss your father?” Frodo asked.

Elrond shrugged. “I had little time to know him before we were parted.”

“And your mother, Elwing?”

“I knew her a little longer but she was . . . pre-occupied by my father's absence.” Elrond's gaze never left the sky.

“I, too, lost my parents when I was quite young. They died in a boating accident and I was raised by my aunt and uncle until I was old enough to live with Bilbo.” Frodo watched the line of darkness on the horizon widen.

“Bilbo told me. I hope to become re-acquainted with my parents. We will have much to discuss I think.”

Frodo sighed. “I shall only have Bilbo to talk to when we reach our destination.”

“Does that trouble you?” Elrond turned to look at him now and Frodo saw concern crease his smooth brow.

“We are mortals and Bilbo is old. There will come a time when I will be alone.” 

Elrond laid a warm hand upon Frodo's shoulder. “No, Frodo. You will not be alone. Did you truly believe that my daughter gifted only a berth on this ship? She offered you her family too.”

Frodo's eyes widened. “You would do that for me?”

Now Elrond chuckled and it was the sound of sun warmed water in a quiet meadow stream. “It is done, Frodo. It is unlikely that I shall ever again rule over some great valley, but what hearth and home I have I will gladly share with both you and Bilbo and, perhaps in time, Sam.” 

Frodo took in a deep, salt-fresh breath, letting all his worries flow out upon a soft sigh. Together, hobbit and elf sat in companionable silence, even as the first cleansing drops of rain began to fall.

END


	49. Pippin II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is gone and Elrond decides Frodo has grieved long enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Frodo or Elrond. Everyone and everything belongs to JRR Tolkien . . . except Pippin II. With thanks to Shirebound for the inspiration.

Bilbo had been gone a sixmonth and, outwardly, Frodo seemed to be coping well. He walked less often it was true and the little cottage they had shared for several years was tidier, the garden weedless. He still called upon Elrond and Celebrian and the many other elves he had befriended since his arrival, and he received many visitors in return. But the healer in Elrond could see a hollowness within. He waited to see if it would heal on its own, as such things often did, but when it did not he decided it was time to take a hand.

He found Frodo upon hands and knees before the kitchen window, a bucket at his side filled with soil and mint leaves. The air was thick with the clean, sharp-sweet smell of the plant.

“Good morning, Frodo.”

Frodo dumped another handful of mint into his bucket and straightened, using one hand to rub the small of his back and leaving a muddy smear on his shirt in the process. “Good morning, Elrond.”

Elrond nodded toward the little herb plot and the area scoured clean before his friend's knees. “Whatever has the mint plant done to offend you?”

“It has become a bully and is going to strangle my nice thyme plants if I don't reign it in.” Frodo pointed to the bucket. “I don't suppose you would like to take some of this home to make mint tea? I have far too much and this little lot is destined for the compost heap otherwise.”

“I am certain Celebrian would be happy to accept some to make tea and I can use the rest for compresses and ointments.” 

“Good. I don't like to see things go to waste. Sam taught me that much. If you pass me that riddle I can sift out any soil.” He pointed to the large round, mesh based instrument near Elrond's feet.

Elrond merely looked conflicted and Frodo noted that he had both arms folded within his heavy outer robe. “Before we do that, I came to ask a favour of you.”

Frodo stood and Elrond noted how much more slowly he did so, remembering the younger hobbit who, even recovering from a morgul wound, would clamber to his feet so easily. How swiftly mortals aged, even here, in the beneficent air of the West.

“Name it. You know I will do anything I can. You and your family have already given me far more than I could ever repay.”

Elrond smiled softly. How many times had he told Frodo that the debt was entirely his, and the gift from his daughter only a fraction of the payment owed by all of Middle earth to this unassuming hobbit? So many times that he decided that one more would be a waste of his breath. They would never agree upon the matter. Instead, he held out his arms to reveal a small brown, squirming bundle.

“Erestor and Faerwen's dog had puppies six weeks ago. Dawdle was doing well at first but then developed an infection. I tried to help but, sadly, she died a few days ago. They have been hand rearing the litter since then but this little chap is not doing well. He needs more attention than Erestor and Faerwen can give and they wondered if you would be willing to accept a house guest.” 

A little wet black nose sniffed delicately at Frodo's proffered muddy fingers. “I've never particularly liked dogs . . . an unfortunate incident in my childhood.” The softening of gaze and voice belied any claim to dislike however as a little pink tongue swiped experimentally at Frodo's palm. Frodo withdrew his hand at once, scolding gently. “Here now! That hand is dirty. You shouldn't be licking it.”

Elrond chuckled, bending his long length to set his gift upon the grass at Frodo's feet. The puppy took two wobbling steps before landing upon her little rump and rolling completely over before clambering back onto pink padded feet. “She will come to little harm from good clean soil.”

Just as well, Frodo noted, as the puppy began to scratch at the newly cleared earth of the kitchen garden, showering the lawn with soil. If hunting was not to be her niche, digging would definitely suit this rather long bodied dog, with legs that barely managed to hold her round pink belly off the floor. This was certainly not a dog bred to hunt down deer.

Frodo made a grab for the puppy's scruff as she made to squat amid the young thyme plants. She yelped as she was deposited firmly in some long grass. “Oh no you don't, you little mischief! If you need the toilet you can do it there.” After circling a couple of times the puppy obliged, then bumbled back to plant herself upon the grass at Frodo's feet, gazing up at him with adoring liquid brown eyes.

Elrond, despite tight clamped lips, appeared to find the event highly amusing, his grey eyes twinkling. “I think she likes you. At the least, she obeys you.”

Frodo lowered himself to the grass and the puppy made a valiant effort to clamber into his lap, drawing a giggle from her mortal climbing frame when she only succeeded in tumbling onto her back and rolling over before trying again. After several more attempts Frodo took pity upon her, lifting her into his lap, where she shoved her face between the buttons of his shirt, tucked her little wet nose against his belly and promptly went to sleep.

Elrond hunkered down at his side. “She definitely likes you.”

Frodo pursed his lips, but his hand strayed to rest upon the soft rise and fall of the puppy's chest. “How long would I be expected to care for her?”

“Just until she is old enough to fend for herself and find her new family,” Elrond replied neutrally. “A few weeks only.”

Frodo touched the little pink pads of one back foot and the puppy twitched in her sleep but did not awaken. “A few weeks,” he echoed, already under her spell. “Does she have a name?”

Elrond smiled, congratulating himself. “Not yet. That is a matter usually decided between dog and family. But if it would make it easier I am sure she would not object to a temporary name, if you have one in mind.”

Frodo looked from damp grass to cratered herb bed. “She is small and full of mischief. Pippin, I think.” He stroked the back curled so tightly in his lap. “I shall call you Pippin.” He turned to lift one brow at Elrond. “Just until she finds her new family you understand.”

“Absolutely,” Elrond replied. “I am certain that you will be the first to know, when she makes her choice.”

And Frodo was. 

END


	50. Robin robin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam introduces Frodo to a new friend.

“Very good Sam, but did you really intend to write, 'deb' or did you mean, 'bed'?” Frodo held out the slate and Sam squinted at it in the sunshine.

“I got 'em . . . er . . . them, the wrong way round again, didn't I?” Sam's small face fell and he rubbed out the offending word.

Frodo and Sam were sitting on the well tended bit of lawn, beside Hamfast Gamgee's vegetable patch, having been shooed out of the smial earlier by Bell and Daisy, who were tackling the weekly laundry. Neither lad had objected for it was a pleasant summer morning and the grass was soft beneath their outstretched legs.

Frodo watched as his pupil tried again to write the word. Sam managed to get his b's and d's the correct way around most of the time but the word 'bed' seemed to throw him every time. Suddenly inspiration struck and Frodo eased the slate and chalk from Sam's hands. “Think of it as making a bed, Sam. Imagine looking at a bed from the side. Here is the footboard . . .” He drew a vertical line. “And here is the headboard.” He drew another line a short distance away. “Now your bed would look silly with the pillows and mattress on this side of the headboard.” Here he drew a half circle against the 'headboard', turning it into a 'b'. Sam giggled and Frodo rubbed it out, continuing, “The pillows and mattress need to go in between the headboard . . .” Another half circle, this time turning the headboard into a 'd'. “And the footboard.” He added a half circle to the footboard to make it a 'b' and slipped an 'e' between them.

Sam's face lit up as Frodo handed back his slate. “That's right, Mr Frodo. Now I'll always remember it. Thank you.” Excitedly, he rubbed out Frodo's example and set too making his own 'bed'.

Frodo leaned back on his elbows and crossed his ankles. At his side Hamfast Gamgee had left his fork planted upright in the soil and Frodo watched several worms burrowing down into the rich loam around its tines. It was an unusual occurrence, for Hamfast was very particular about keeping his gardening tools in good order, but Arty Sedgeburry's cow, Clara, had escaped into the lane. She was making determinedly for the buttercup meadows down by the Water, and all the menfolk were trying to persuade her that the grass in her field was just as tasty. Frodo could hear much excited shouting from away down the hill. Clara's escape was a regular occurrence at least twice each summer, indeed Arty had been heard to avow that he would not declare it summer until she did so. Frodo wondered if he was aware that the local youngsters sometimes prized the hedges apart in order to precipitate summer's arrival.

Suddenly there was a fluttering of wings and a small, round robin, with glowing orange throat, landed upon the fork handle. He tilted his head, looking at Frodo through shiny black beady eyes. Frodo had never been so close to a wild bird and his soft, “Oh!” was noted by Sam, who immediately set aside his slate. 

“Bless me. Tis robin. He don't usually come this close to strangers.”

Still with his eyes upon the little brown bird, Frodo corrected Sam automatically. “Remember your grammar, Sam. It should be, 'A robin'.” The robin leaned forward, tilting its head again, in time to see the tail of the last worm disappear.

“No, Mister Frodo, begin' your pardon. That's Robin the robin,” he explained. “He's been following my da around the garden for a year or more. He's very tame. Let me show you.” Sam scrambled to his knees and Robin followed his every move as he began turning cabbage leaves, finally producing a fat green caterpillar. “Hold out your hand.”

Frodo sat up, obeying Sam's instruction. He was rewarded by having the caterpillar dropped in his palm, where it promptly curled itself into a tiny ball. Sam slipped his hand beneath Frodo's and lifted it closer to Robin. Frodo held his breath as the caterpillar uncurled and began to nose around his new surroundings.

Robin continued to assess Frodo and then the caterpillar. The lads waited patiently and Sam leaned in to murmur. “He'll find it hard to say no to that. He's got young uns to feed at this time of year and him and his missus will be run ragged.”

Sam was proved right as, with a flutter of tiny brown wings, Robin landed, his sharp little claws prickling Frodo's fingers. He watched the caterpillar, which had curled itself into a ball once more. Then, with a little bob as though to say 'thankyou', Robin nipped up the hapless caterpillar and flew away, disappearing into a tangle of hawthorn hedge.

Frodo grinned broadly at his young friend. “That was wonderful!”

Sam grinned back, pleased that he had been able to repay Master Frodo in some way for all his kindnesses to him. Both looked toward the hawthorn when, sweet and clear came the mellifluous robin song.

“I do believe Robin the robin is saying 'thankyou,' Sam.”

Sam giggled. “'Where's my puddin', is more likely.”

END


	51. Who Will You Be?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond decides it is time to have a little chat with Frodo after some time in the West.

I don't own Elrond, Frodo or the events in Middle earth. They belong to JRR Tolkien and I am only borrowing them for a little while.

Frodo stared out at the sea, its changing moods a constant fascination to him. He felt guilty spending so much time sitting on this cliff top but for some reason, today he could not seem to gather the strength to move. He should be doing things should he not? Making the most of what could still be a short life? He had been given a wonderful gift to come West and it would be churlish to waste it.

And yet the energy to shift had deserted him. He had no responsibilities to force him into action here. For all of his life there had been calls upon his time but they were just the responsibilities that everyone had to deal with. 

The real responsibilities had come with the Ring and he tried not to dwell upon those. Events had helped him there for after its destruction the people of Minas Tirith held feasts in his honour almost every evening. It would have been impolite to decline their invitations and Bilbo had taught him the importance of being polite . . . even if his uncle did not always follow his own instruction. So he had buried his pain beneath the role of Saviour of Middle earth and allowed himself to be distracted by fine food and new companions.

Once back in the Shire there was so much work to be done. Although his tenure as Deputy Mayor was short it was a period of great upheaval. The responsibility of putting all to rights once more laid heavy upon his already bowed shoulders but he accepted it for it allowed him to hide behind the title and ignore Frodo Baggins. When Rose and Sam took over the running of Bag End Frodo filled the time with writing down his tale, knowing that the book must be finished before he sailed. He tried hard to lose himself in words, without touching the emotions. Once finished he never read it again. 

Here, in the West, there was time aplenty and no titles to hide behind so he made sure to fill his hours with activity of his own making. Activity precluded introversion and Frodo sought refuge in exploration and learning, tramping far and wide with Bilbo and their new elven companions. 

A long shadow shortened beside him and Frodo looked aside, surprised to find Elrond, sitting cross legged upon the grass. Elrond did not look at him, however. He gazed out to sea.

“Good day, Master Elrond.” Frodo waited expectantly but the silence stretched on to the horizon.

“Good day, Frodo.” 

There was another silence that Frodo tried to fill with, “It's a lovely day, is it not?”

Elrond's gaze did not move. “Yes.”

After another long pause Frodo tried again. “Do you think those clouds will bring rain?” He pointed to their left where white clouds were beginning to gather on the horizon.

Elrond did not follow his pointing finger, only replying, “Perhaps.”

The elven lord seemed disinclined to talk. After fidgeting for a few more minutes Frodo was at a loss and wondered if perhaps he had intruded upon a place special to Elrond so he smiled, making to rise. “Well, I'd better see if Bilbo needs any help.”

“He does not. Celebrian is with him.” Elrond laid a gentle restraining hand upon Frodo's arm. “Sit with me a moment longer.”

Frodo waited politely but when Elrond did not continue he cleared his throat. “Did you wish to speak to me about something?” One thing Frodo had learned since his arrival was that some elves could be as circumspect as Ents when coming to the point, and needed to be prodded along.

Elrond continued to stare out to sea. “How is your healing progressing, do you think?”

Frodo blinked. It seemed Elrond was not feeling particularly entish today after all. “I am feeling much more rested,” he replied with an achingly bright smile. He suspected that Elrond was talking of something else and tried to head him off. “My shoulder hardly hurts at all now.”

“And your anniversary illnesses?” The question landed with a loud splash. 

Frodo should have known better than to even try heading off Elrond. He dropped the smile. “You know about them?” He had spoken to no-one of them and, as far as he was aware, only Bilbo had been witness to his lapses into despair in October and March.

Elrond's voice was quiet and contained no judgement. “I know. I would have spoken to you before but I hoped that you would find your path alone. Yet you have ensured that you are rarely alone, have you not?”

Frodo glanced aside but Elrond still seemed to be mesmerised by the waves as they crept persistently up the beach. “I don't care to be too long alone with my thoughts,” he replied flatly.

“There is more to your healing than the knitting of bone and sinew. In your heart you know this, or you would not be here.” 

Frodo watched gentle waves nibble at the strand. “I do, I think. But I'm not sure how to proceed.”

Elrond smiled. “Listening is often a good place to begin.”

“To you?” Frodo asked in some confusion.

Elrond turned to place a warm hand over Frodo's heart. “To yourself. You have been hiding from yourself. You will never find the healing you seek until you confront the pain you have learned to lock away behind the wall of deeds.”

“Hiding?” Frodo found himself blinking back a tear. “I am not sure that I dare.”

Below them the tide was moving in relentlessly now. “What holds you back?”

“I . . . I am not certain I will survive if I lower the walls,” Frodo confessed bleakly.

“Is survival worth the price you pay?” Elrond asked, their eyes meeting at last.

“I don't know,” Frodo replied weakly.

“Frodo, son of Drogo, you are one of the strongest people it has ever been my honour to know.” Elrond stood, pausing to look down at him. “Begin with this thought . . . If all that we have been determines all that we will become. Is it not therefore wise to fully understand who we have been and who we are now, before taking the next step upon the path to that person we wish to become?” 

Elrond did not wait for a reply and Frodo watched his retreating back for several minutes before turning back to the sea. A wavelet crept in to gently roll the pebbles and sand, before retreating to be followed by another and then another. 

When Frodo returned to their shared cottage some hours later Bilbo could see that his nephew had been crying but the lad seemed a little lighter in spirit at last. 

 

END


	52. In Minas Tirith You Can Hear Them Scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new king of Gondor indulges his friends in a seafood feast.

(Shirebound gave me this prompt. "How can you eat that oyster-thing? That's disgusting!"

I don't own any hobbits. They all belong to JRR Tolkien and I'm only borrowing to torment them for a little while.)

 

“I love trying all these new foods,” Merry declared as he squeezed lemon over an oyster. “Having a seafood feast before we all head back inland again is a wonderful idea.”

Sam watched but made no attempt to join him, preferring instead to spread some succulent crab meat upon a thin wafer. “I've become quite partial to some of this stuff from the sea. Have you tried that white fish, Mr Frodo? It's not so strong a flavour as river fish.”

“I have. And it's even nicer with that parsley sauce.” Frodo swallowed a bright orange mussel, using his fork to point to a boat of gently steaming pale sauce. “I don't understand why Gimli will not even try seafood.”

Pippin's mouth turned down at the corners as he watched Merry tip back his head and let the oyster slide out of its shell and into his mouth. “How can you eat that oyster-thing. That's disgusting!”

Merry chewed once and swallowed, smacking his lips. “Why? It's got a lovely delicate taste . . . sort of sweet and salty.”

Frodo gave a mock shudder. “You do realise you're eating them alive, don't you?”

Merry's reply was delayed as he slid another pale, lemon drizzled oyster into his mouth and chewed. “Oh no you don't, cousin. You won't catch me out that way again. I remember you once telling me that mushrooms screamed when they were picked.”

Frodo grinned. “It stopped you eating them, though, and that left more for me. You were so easy to tease when you were a faunt.”

“My Mam gave you a sound telling off for that one and Dad put you on stable cleaning duty for a week,” Merry crowed as he swirled his tiny fork in another oyster then lifted the shell and threw back his head once more.

“It was almost worth it. You didn't eat mushrooms for a week before Aunt Esme found out, and I got to eat your share whenever they were served.” Frodo selected another mussel, pausing to dip it in a pale yellow sauce before popping it into his mouth.

“Actually, Frodo is correct. The oyster is alive.” Aragorn interjected as he helped himself to a few cockles.

All eyes flew to Merry, who froze, mid chew. They watched in fascination as his face cycled through pink to white and then green. Eyes wide, he began to search frantically and it was Legolas who thrust a small dish beneath his chin. With some relief, Merry spit out the oyster and Legolas hastily threw a napkin over it while Frodo offered a glass of water to his cousin.

Aragorn hid a smile behind his own napkin but then grunted in apparent pain, turning questioning eyes upon his elven friend who glared back. 

Legolas turned to Merry. “It is believed that oysters do not feel pain as we do,” he offered as he waved for a servitor to remove the covered dish. “I confess that I have never enjoyed their texture when raw and prefer them cooked and served in a sauce.”

Sam eyed the other foods set before them on the table as though expecting them to get up and start marching toward him. “I don't hold with eatin' creatures that aint dead. Is there ought else I should know about this lot?” he asked warily.

Frodo calmly helped himself to a spoonful of white and another of brown crab meat. “It's alright Sam. The rest of it has been cooked. It's just oysters they prefer raw. I don't know why because in my opinion they have very little taste and are rather chewy.”

Pippin, who knew Minas Tirith better than any of them and had been fascinated by the fish market in particular, saw his chance to clear the table of other diners; leaving more for himself. “Well, yes, it's all cooked. But have you seen how they do it?” he asked with some relish.

Now all the other hobbits set down their eating utensils and Pippin found himself the centre of attention, a position he delighted in. Letting his gaze roam their faces slowly he dropped his voice. “They take the shellfish, crabs and lobsters and throw them into huge pots of boiling water.” He paused for dramatic effect. “While they're still alive. You can actually hear them scream!”

Three sets of eyes widened, three sets of cheeks whitened and three faces turned to Aragorn. “Is that true?” asked Frodo in a voice barely more than a whisper.

Before answering, Aragorn glanced aside at Legolas. He held no inclination to have his ankle kicked again for it hurt, even with boots on. Legolas rolled his eyes but nodded and Aragorn dabbed at his mouth with a napkin before replying. “That is the quickest and safest way to kill them, yes. And there are those who argue that most shellfish have no way of feeling pain as other animals do. They have no voices and the screaming you describe is just air escaping their shells.” He pointed to a dish of mussels. “And just how would you chop the head off one of those anyway?”

Sam was the first to recover, having wrung the necks of a few chickens and skinned a coney or two in his time. “That's true. I couldn't rightly tell you whether they even have a head.” He began to pile crab meat on his wafer once more.

“A good point,” agreed Frodo as he took a bite of his own. Living close to the land as most hobbits did they were, in general, more pragmatic about such things.

Merry, having by now recovered his normal colour, helped himself to a lobster tail and some sauce. “Just be sure to let me know if I try to eat anything else that's still living.”

Pippin grinned, accepting with good grace that he would not have exclusive use of the feast after all. “Of course, Merry.”

Aragorn leaned aside to whisper to Legolas behind his napkin. “I suppose now is not the time to tell Frodo that crabs are thought to be of the same family as spiders?” 

Legolas' foot made unerringly accurate contact with the king's ankle again.

“Ouch!” Aragorn hurriedly slid his feet behind the legs of his chair. “Apparently not.”

END


	53. An Ordinary Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt by Stardreamer

"Do you ever feel... useless?" asked Merry. "I mean, we fought in the Great War of the Ring, and we drove the ruffians out of the Shire, and now sometimes everything seems sort of boring." He picked his way over a muddy patch in the trail.

Frodo followed in his footprints. “I find that I quite enjoy 'boring' nowadays.”

Sam allowed Pippin to precede him. The four adventurers had stolen a few days to be together and it was Frodo who had suggested they go for a walk in the woods near Bywater Pool. It had been raining for several days but today the sun had arisen in a bright blue sky.

“I've never liked, 'boring' either. But I think I prefer this to fighting in a battle.” Pippin hitched his small pack higher, not in the least surprised when Sam added, “I'm with Mr Frodo on this. Borin' will suit me fine.”

For several minutes they continued in a silence punctuated only by their breathing and the sweet trill of birdsong. It was as they were settling down on a fallen log to eat their sandwiches that Merry spoke again.

“I'll give you that 'boring' can be good but what about feeling useless?”

Sam began peeling a hard boiled egg. “Well, I don't feel useless. We still got some trees to plant and now Bag End is cleaned out there's Mr Frodo's things to bring back from Crickhollow.”

“Oh Sam. You don't have to keep running around after me.” Frodo accepted the peeled egg nonetheless, pausing to dip it in a little pot of salt placed ready by Sam.

“I wouldn't feel right, leavin' you to sort out all that on your own,” Sam asserted as he peeled another egg.

Pippin snorted. “He won't be on his own, Sam. Merry and I are going to cart back the furnishings and we can help Frodo arrange them.”

“You have things of your own to see to in Tookborough and Buckland. Just send them with the carter. I'm sure I can call on neighbours to help if needed.” Frodo poured cider for them all. “You two are the least useless of all of us. People look to you for leadership.”

Sam frowned. “They're lookin' to you for leadership too, Mr Frodo. Don't forget you're still Deputy Mayor.”

“Then, that just proves my point. We're none of us useless,” Frodo announced with finality.

There was a short pause and then Pippin asked, “So, does anyone fancy going to search for the Entwives?”

END


	54. The Mushroom Mishap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Febobe gave me the prompt:-
> 
> "But the mushrooms don't *belong* in the soup!" cried (fill in the blank with character name)  
> -Frodo turned an unhealthy shade of white, looking as if he might faint or be sick, not that anyone could say which it might be.

Strider set a punishing pace as they travelled through Chetwood and the hobbits had to stumble along behind as best they could. Even their new pony found the going hard, having to be coaxed by Sam through some of the thicker copses.

As they approached evening of the first day Merry noticed that Frodo was walking more and more stiffly and he dropped back to see what was the matter. He knew his cousin well enough to realise that he would say nothing about any discomfort, unless confronted directly.

“I can see why they call him, Longshanks.” Merry grinned as he fell into step.

“He certainly doesn't believe in taking time to admire the scenery. Have you noticed how silently he moves?”

“All the big folk I ever saw went crashing about in their clomping great boots, so that we could hear them a mile away.” Merry caught Frodo's elbow as he stumbled. “Almost as noisy as you're being now. You're stumbling about like a bear in a thicket. What ever is the matter, cousin?”

Frodo grimaced as he accepted Merry's help to step over a fallen log. “Remember when I fell off the table at the Prancing Pony?”

“How could I ever forget? I thought we were sure to be thrown out.”

“Well, let's just say that landing on my behind on a hard wood floor is not an experience I want to repeat any time soon.” Frodo rubbed his rear and winced.

Merry chuckled. “Is that all? I thought you had at least broken a leg.”

His words had the desired affect and Frodo snorted a laugh. “I see this old and decrepit hobbit will get no sympathy from you.”

“Of course not, because you're neither of those.” 

Nonetheless, he continued to pace his cousin, helping him when he stumbled, until up ahead Strider called out, “We shall stop here for the night, gentlemen. Do not make the fire too large.”

Pippin threw himself down with a dramatic huff as Sam began to unpack their cooking gear. Merry helped lower Frodo onto a log, wincing in sympathy when he saw him favour the left side as he sat. “You stay here while I help collect wood for the fire,” Merry instructed.

A few minutes later Strider hunkered down before Mister Baggins. “What ails you?”

Frodo had to admit that the big man could be as forthright as a hobbit. “It's nothing. Just a bit of a bruise . . . from when I fell in the Pony.”

Strider nodded. “Have you no embrocation to put on it?”

“We had to leave most of our non-food supplies behind when we lost the ponies,” Frodo confessed. “Liniment or bread? Not a difficult choice for a hobbit,” he added with a rueful smile.

For the first time Frodo saw their dour guide chuckle. “I am beginning to learn that. Sit here and once we have a fire going I shall see what I can do to ease you.” He disappeared into the trees and within a few steps was lost to sight or hearing.

-0-

An hour later the hobbits sat around their small campfire, eating the thick vegetable stew that Sam had created. Frodo even had a portion of fried mushrooms that Sam said Mr Strider had brought specifically for him. Their guide was off in the woods somewhere doing something he called, “Checking the perimeter,” whatever that meant. The mushrooms were delicious and Frodo was touched by the consideration, even as he fended off Pippin's wayward fork.

“I do not think we have been followed. My ploy seems to have worked.” Strider settled, cross-legged by the fire and accepted the bowl Sam offered. “I ran back as far as the road and spotted some recent boot prints heading east but they showed no signs of turning off after us. They will probably travel a few more miles before they realise we are not ahead of them. By then it will be too dark for them to backtrack and pick up our trail.”

Frodo's nose wrinkled. “At least you saw no hoof prints.”

“Not fresh ones, no. Sam, where have you put those mushrooms I brought earlier? I need to set them to boil for a few minutes.”

“Oh, there's no need, Mr Strider. I fried 'em up myself.”

“And very nice they are, too. How ever did you know that mushrooms were my favourite food?” Frodo chewed another mouthful of the delicious treat but paused when he saw all colour drain from Strider's face.

“The mushrooms were not intended for eating. I brought them to make a poultice for your bruise. They are not edible!”

Frodo turned an unhealthy shade of white, looking as if he might faint or be sick, not that anyone could say which it might be. Everything seemed to slow down in Frodo's mind. It took him an age to set down his plate of mushrooms and days to spit out the half chewed piece in his mouth. Then he felt a hot flush race through his body, followed by the sensation of being dowsed in freezing water, and time returned to normal as he stumbled off into the trees.

Strider was only half a step behind him as Frodo dropped to his knees behind a convenient tree and was violently sick. For some time he was aware of nothing else, certain that he must have rid his stomach of at least a week's worth of food. When he leaned back on his heels Strider wiped his lips with a wet cloth and held out a water pouch with the instruction, “Swill and spit, then take slow sips.”

Frodo accepted a little sheepishly. “You must think us very stupid,” he murmured.

Strider rubbed soothing circles on his back. “No. I must learn to be more specific in my instructions. I am unused to travelling much with others and you are all new to the wilds. I shall be more careful in future.”

“Will I take any further hurt from the mushrooms?”

Strider wrinkled his nose at the evidence of Frodo's reaction so far. “I doubt your body had much time to absorb the toxins and their effects are not deadly, just unpleasant.”

Frodo smiled ruefully. “It pains me to say this, Strider, but in future will you please assume we are all faunts when it comes to plants in the wild.”

“Faunts?” Strider helped him to his feet.

“Children. The young ones who, given a toy, will take it straight to their mouths.”

Strider chuckled as he led his companion back to the fire. “Understood.”

END


	55. Duty

Linda Hoyland gave me the prompt:- The weary travellers took shelter from the heat of the day beneath the branches of a mighty oak. 

I don't own anything. The world, events and everyone in them belong to JRR Tolkien.

 

The four hobbits settled down together for a snack, after spending all morning being shown the town and Golden Hall by King Eomer. After their long journey from Gondor, followed by King Theoden's wake, it was a great relief to simply sit still, alone at last; just the four of them. The weary travellers took shelter from the heat of the day beneath the branches of a mighty oak, behind and a little above the palisade surrounding the hilltop. Meduseld perched upon a lonely mound in the centre of a broad plain so it looked as though an entire world was spread out before them. 

“Where do you think they're going?” Pippin nodded to where Elrond and the new queen of Gondor were riding across the plain, toward the foothills of the surrounding mountains.

Frodo turned his head, finding Aragorn also watching from some distance away. “I think the lady and her father want some privacy to say their goodbye's.”

“Goodbye's?” Merry frowned as he laid his head upon one raised knee. “I had forgotten that Aragorn would be leaving us here. Our fellowship is breaking again.”

“As it should,” Frodo murmured before taking a sip from the water flask Sam offered. “It has done what was needed and more.”

“I don't reckon I want to think on us all partin' again. I shall miss Strider and I suppose Master Gimli and Legolas will be leavin' as well. I like Legolas. He's not so scary as some of them other elves.” Sam craned his neck to look over the palisade at the elegant pavilions of Lothlorien and Rivendell below.

Frodo smiled. “Scary? I don't think we need be frightened of them. The elves know more than we because they have lived for longer, that is all.”

Merry narrowed his eyes. “I don't suppose there's much scares you any more, cousin, but most elves still make me uneasy. I always get the impression that they know what I'm thinking even before I think it.” He accepted the water flask from Frodo, taking a good swallow before passing it to Pippin.

Sam handed out chunks of bread and cheese. “I know what you mean, Mister Merry. Sometimes, when that Lady Galadriel looks at me, I feel like my head is some old mathom house and she's having a good old rummage around in it.” He shuddered.

“Oh Sam,” Frodo smiled. “I rather think that when you become as old as she, you have seen the same actions and behaviours played out so many times, that you come to know how people will react in any situation.”

“I hadn't thought of it that way,” Sam confessed. “Maybe that's why I like Master Legolas. He's not as old as some of them others, is he?”

Frodo chewed as he considered. “It may be. I have never considered his age but he does feel younger than Lord Elrond and most of the other elves.”

Pippin washed down some cheese with a mouthful of water. “How can you tell? I bet he's still way older than us.”

“Oh, I've no doubt he is. But he still finds so much in the world to delight him. Lord Elrond once told me that the main reason elves travelled West in the past, was because they became weary of this world. Not in the way of being tired after a long walk, but rather that they tire of seeing the same events play out over and over again.” Frodo set down the remains of his bread, no longer hungry, and touched the warmth of Arwen's jewel against his breast.

“But won't they have the same people and events in the West too?” asked Pippin, simply.

Frodo shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe so. But now they have another reason to leave.”

“What's that Mister Frodo?” Sam frowned as he collected up the remains of Frodo's meagrely unhobbit-like meal.

Frodo nodded to where Aragorn still stood, staring out across the plain. “Middle earth no longer belongs to them. They have helped to set things right and now they must stand aside to let others enjoy it.” 

Aragorn's head turned, his keen gaze finding Frodo's. No words were spoken but after a moment the King of Gondor shrugged straight his heavy mantle and turned back to his duties. Beneath the tree Frodo tried in vain to shrug off a duty ended, and stared longingly toward the western horizon. 

END


	56. And All Shall Be New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Shire is being rebuilt but Sam takes a moment to remember his home.

Hobbits are an industrious people so re-ordering the Shire was taking less time than Sam initially anticipated. In truth, after all the damage done by Sharkey and his minions, Sam had secretly harboured the fear that his beloved Shire would never be the same again. Of course, Mister Frodo said that it never could be the same, but that change was not always a bad thing. Mister Frodo had always been a deep thinker. At least the Lady Galadriel's gift of soil from her garden was beginning to heal many of the scars, and Sam had stopped to water the little mallorn seedling in the party field on his way up the hill.

Number three New Row was as snug a hobbit hole as anyone could wish for, with its brick lining and big windows, but Sam decided that he liked the old cob-lined and whitewashed number three Bagshot Row better. As yet, none of the refurbished holes on the row were furnished so, as Sam stood in the centre of his Gaffer's new home, it was easy to bring to mind how it had looked throughout his childhood and tweenage years.

Some of the planks in the big round door were new but it was painted the same shade of buttercup yellow that Hamfast and Bell Gamgee had always favoured. The front window was larger but still round and Sam ran a hand along the curved sill, imagining he felt the ghost of spotted wax. His Ma often set a candle there on winter evenings to welcome her husband home and, as a tween Sam had accompanied his Gaffer up the lane, drawn by that little shimmering point of golden light.

Turning away he found the old kitchen range, leaded and polished to a shine, just as Ma used to like it. It was too big and heavy to remove, but Sharkey's men had used it for the storage of some very unsavoury items, and Sam and Rose had taken personal responsibility for its cleansing. The boiler on the left, with its small brass tap, held just enough water for the kitchen sink, and Sam made a mental note to ensure that it was filled before his Gaffer moved in. To its right, the oven was big enough to take several loaves and the central fire with its hob was laid with kindling, just awaiting a spark. Sam glanced up automatically, but the layered wooden drying rack that once graced the ceiling was gone. Ma used to hang laundry there on wet winter days and a towel, ready for Hamfast to take his wash after a long day gardening.

There had once been a small wooden settle in the alcove to the left of the chimney breast, with a corner cupboard above. Its key, the only key in Number Three, always resided in Ma's apron pocket for it held her most treasured possessions . . . four sets of matching crockery that had been a wedding gift from her family. The dishes, with their pretty border of yellow daisies, had once belonged to Ma's grandma. Sam scrubbed a sneaky tear from his cheek. Like so many other things, those dishes had gone missing some time during Sharkey's occupation of the Shire, and would likely never be seen again. Bell Gamgee had cherished them, only using them on special celebration days or when Mister Bilbo called. With their loss there was no point in replacing the cupboard and Hamfast had not the heart to insist that they do so.

In the alcove to the right of the black kitchen range had once stood a huge wooden dresser on which was stored all of the family's cooking and eating dishes, pots and pans. Sam remembered helping his Ma empty and wash everything during the annual spring clean, a job Daisy hated. A new dresser was in the making, along with a chair for the Gaffer, and pots and pans were being donated by most of Hobbiton. Ma's chair, rescued from the mill just before its demolition, would soon be back in it's proper place to the right of the hearth. Bell Gamgee had nursed all her children in that rocker and no doubt Marigold would take it with her when she wed next year.

The sound of hammering and voices drew Sam to the back wall of the smial where a smaller round window looked out onto New Row's shared back yard. Through it Sam glimpsed a group of hobbits still building the privy and wash-house, shared by all three smials in the row. Construction of a new stable and pigsty would begin next week but Frodo had decided not to replace the workshop, instead allowing the land to be turned over to vegetable plots for numbers one and two New Row.

A huge square white sink stood beneath the window, and a sturdy wooden drainer had been fitted next to it only yesterday, set with a brand new water pump. Sam knew that Marigold was working on a curtain to hide the buckets and other paraphernalia that everyone collected under their sinks. Mari's was blue but Sam remembered the bright yellow one his Ma had made from Daisy's old dress.

Next to the sink was Number Three's back door, narrow and arched for there was not enough wall space to accommodate a round one. And at right angles to it was the pantry door. Not as big and fancy as the one in Bag End, yet it was lined with many shelves and had a thick marble cooling slab on the back wall. When Sam was a faunt there were times when money for food was scarce but Ma always managed to fill those shelves, and he remembered many a family foraging trip to collect fruits and nuts, mushrooms and herbs. Beneath the slab, behind the water bucket holding the milk can, had been the perfect place for games of hide and seek. It's outer wall facing north, it was cool on the hottest days, it's tiny window set with an open wire mesh to allow free circulation of air.

An arch led to the bedrooms, although one would now become a small parlour, with a fireplace planned before next winter. Sam's Gaffer had protested that he had no need of such a posh thing but, with all the children grown, Number Three had little use for three bedrooms. Mr Pippin said he would be sending some old furniture from Great Smials to furnish this new room, but Sam suspected that Da and Mari would end up sitting by the kitchen fire, as they always had.

He wondered what table would occupy the centre of the room. All Bell's children, in turn had spent many an hour playing beneath the huge oblong table that once graced this kitchen, while she chopped vegetables, skinned rabbits, kneaded bread, mixed cakes, rolled pastry, ironed laundry or cut out fabric for new clothes on the surface above. That table had been the heart of the smial, its wood as smooth as silk and almost white. Sam remembered the circling swish of the brush above his head as Ma scrubbed it each day. One leg only had been recovered from a rubbish heap and Da said it did not do to dwell on its fate. Sam suspected that the new table would be smaller.

He glanced down at the freshly laid tile floor as a shadow appeared next to his own. 

“You ready, Sam?” Rose entwined her fingers with his. “You've been in here ages. Is somethin' wrong with your Da's new smial?”

Sam smiled at her. “No. I was just rememberin' how it was when Ma was with us. I wish she could see it now. I think she'd like it.” 

Rose leaned in to lay her head on his shoulder. “I'm sure she would.” Then she straightened and gave his hand a little tug. “Come on love. Mr Frodo's got the kettle on.”

Sam allowed her to lead him into the little front garden, pausing to close the freshly painted door of his old home, before following her up the hill to Bag End and his new one. 

END


	57. Sing, Choirs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo has difficulty sleeping on the ship into the West.

Frodo climbed wearily up the ladder, and onto the deck of the huge ship. Many elves stood or sat upon the silver planks, talking in small groups or simply admiring the view. He supposed he would have to get used to the fact that these folk rarely slept as mortals do. Not that this particular mortal was having much success in that tonight, he thought ruefully.

“Good evening, Master Frodo. Have you come to take the air? It is a fine night, is it not?” Lindir's kindly face smiled down at him.

Frodo hugged his cloak more closely against a stiff breeze, that bellied the large sail and snapped the long pennant above it. “I could not sleep and thought some fresh air would help.” He grimaced. “Now I'm not so sure that was a good idea. The air is a little too fresh for my liking.”

Lindir's chuckle was snatched away by a gust of wind that lifted his long dark hair, like some living pennant. “I believe our captain describes it as, 'brisk'.”

Despite the cold, without and within his body, Frodo found himself smiling. “I'm as fond of a brisk walk as the next hobbit, but this wind runs too swift for my liking.” He staggered as a gust threatened to knock him off his feet, and Lindir reached down to catch him. At the stern of the ship the captain shouted a command, and Frodo felt the craft alter course to turn more squarely into the wind.

“Come, Master Hobbit. If you truly wish to brave the night there is a sheltered spot, in the lee of the forecastle, that would suit.” With a steadying hand upon Frodo's shoulder, Lindir steered him past the mast, toward the swan prow of the ship. 

Some elves had already discovered this place of shelter, but they made way at once for these new refugees, and Frodo soon found himself ensconced upon a cushion in the angle of a sheltered corner. Once settled he looked about, to discover that his new companions included Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel, indeed, he would have scrambled to his feet had not the lord laid a restraining hand upon his shoulder. Sadly, it was the shoulder who's pain had driven him from his bunk, and he cringed away from even that gentle touch. 

“Frodo?” Elrond's face was filled with concern as he leaned in, to push aside Frodo's cloak and shirt.

“I'm sorry. It is the old wound. It always hurts at this time of the year.” He suffered the healer's brief examination, relieved when gentle fingers stroked a little warmth into the chill and aching flesh.

“I suspected it would be the case,” the lady observed as she settled her own soft shawl about Frodo's shoulders.

“I am sorry. Sadly, I have much experience in treating these wounds, but even my skills have their limits. My daughter foresaw this I think, when she offered you her jewel.”

Reminded of its presence, Frodo drew out the clear stone, on it's fine mithril chain, cupping it in his hand. “It has been a succour to me through these anniversary illnesses.”

“But not a cure, I think.” Galadriel smiled sadly. “Olorin was wise to offer you passage to the West.”

“Olorin?” Frodo tucked the jewel back beneath his shirt and drew the shawl close. It smelled sweetly of the lady and, despite its apparent lightness, was warmer than his cloak.

Galadriel nodded toward the stern, where Gandalf was talking with one of the crew. “His true name is Olorin. Although I believe he has become rather fond of Gandalf. As one of the Maia, he is the only one who could permit your passage to the Western lands.”

“He and I discussed the possibility before the Fellowship set forth. You had already suffered much and we knew there would be more before the end. I am sorry that you should have endured so much, Frodo.” Elrond's mist-grey eyes echoed the sadness of his words. 

“I think, if I had known the price, I may not have offered to undertake the task. But then, our chance of success was so small that I think even you could not see the end,” Frodo replied.

“None of us could,” the lady confirmed. “The Ring clouded all foresight.”

Elrond's brow rose slightly. “And foresight has ever been a fickle guide for actions.”

Frodo detected a frisson of old disagreement but decided that it would not be wise to step between two such powerful beings. He was relieved when Elrond apparently decided to change the subject, beckoning to Lindir. “Let us see what we may do to alleviate your present discomfort, and leave the past and the future to their own council.”

When Frodo had first heard that gentle Lindir was one of Elrond's most trusted councillors he had been uncertain why, for he was clearly one of Rivendell's younger residents. Then he had heard him play and sing and all was explained. It was through music that Lindir drew all to the heart of any subject and he could bring peace and clarity to any body or mind. Now he bent to hear Elrond's instruction and raised harp to shoulder. 

Strong and slender fingers plucked and a single clear note sparkled in the air, rising easily above the sounds of voice and sail and wind. It seemed to Frodo that the whole earth held it's breath to hear the next. It did not have long to wait as deft fingers plucked again and Lindir's mellow voice accompanied. Soon others joined in harmony . . . Elrond's rich baritone and even Galadriel's strong and surprisingly warm alto. 

Frodo's Sindarin had been much improved during two visits to Imladris, and by conversing with many elves upon the return journey, but words were not important now. Within minutes the pain of body and soul was born away upon a gentle river of song, that lifted him higher and higher, to weave among the stars that wheeled above them. 

It was there that Frodo heard it. Elven voices were underscored by the echo of one long pure note, held by beings more ancient still. It never wavered, never changed, as though waiting. Elrond's words arose then, clear within his mind.

“And the music and the echo of the music went out into the Void, and it was not void. Never since have the Ainur made any music like to this music, though it has been said that a greater still shall be made before Ilúvatar by the choirs of the Ainur and the Children of Ilúvatar after the end of days.”

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “And the music and the echo of the music went out into the Void, and it was not void. Never since have the Ainur made any music like to this music, though it has been said that a greater still shall be made before Ilúvatar by the choirs of the Ainur and the Children of Ilúvatar after the end of days.” (The Silmarillion, “Ainulindale”)


	58. Dawning

Aubade - A Morning Song (B2Mem) prompt for March 4, 2018

It all belongs to JRR Tolkien and this is fanfic, based upon his work.

 

DAWNING

 

A single trill and Frodo set down his pen, turning to check the mantle timepiece. Five o'clock. Standing, he planted hands to waist and leaned back, emitting a soft groan that blend with several loud pops from his spine. A distant string of sleepy notes brought him to the window but he could see nothing beyond the reflection of his own face, lit by the candle on his desk. For a moment he studied its planes and shadows. 

Frodo could see the beginnings of worry lines across his forehead, and once apple cheeks had been replaced by sharp cheekbones and hollows. Full lips were thinned to a line by pain and care, and the eyes staring back at him were crammed with too much memory. He turned away, snuffing out the light source.

Only then did he note that the study was no longer full black and, upon a sudden need for escape, he slipped down the hallway on silent feet and opened wide the front door. It faced due east and there, on the far horizon, beyond the dark outline of lush farmland and still somnolent villages, was a grey light. 

A blackbird raised his threnody in a hawthorn hedge nearby, joined by another in the ancient apple tree. Almost as though called forth by that entreaty, the horizon washed pale primrose yellow, that slowly deepened to buttercup gold, cut by one narrow trail of lavender cloud.

Frodo started as a noisy flock of sparrows exploded heavenward from the garden hedge, winging for farmland and breakfast, in a rowdy squabble of chirps and cheeps. Rooks cawed in one of the few remaining stands of old trees along the Bywater road, and he watched them rise, circle once, and then sail out in the tiny sparrows' wake.

The edge of Anar's disk peeped above the hilltops, her light reflected back by fields of ripening wheat. In Hobbiton below, pale wisps of smoke began to rise from chimneys, and in the smial behind he heard the first fretful, snuffling protests, of Elenor Gamgee. No doubt Rose would tend her soon, and Sam would stumble sleepily to the kitchen, to rake out the embers of the range.

I fine thread of sweet melody drew Frodo's gaze to the garden gate, where a little robin sat, bold and bright. He puffed out a scarlet chest, tiny head tilted as jet-bead eyes met Frodo's in challenge. Then he rose into the air on a stuttering flutter of wings, and Frodo spun about to watch as he arrowed away, over the smial, chasing night into the west.

“Mornin' Mr Frodo.” He lowered his gaze to find Sam, still belting his dressing gown as he stood in Bag End's hallway. Sandy brows drew down into a frown. “You ain't been up all night writin' again have you?”

“I'm afraid I have, Sam. But it's nearly finished.” He stepped back into the relative dimness of Bag End. “Come on. I'll give you a hand with first breakfast.”

Frodo would take his letter to the post office after second breakfast. Elrond said that he could be reached by sending correspondence, care of the Prancing Pony in Bree. Autumn would be here soon.

END


	59. Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A follow up to my piece, Dawning.

(Everything belongs to JRR Tokien and I am only jumping down the cracks in his narrative.)

 

DECISIONS

“Good evening, Adar.” Elrohir stepped out onto the terrace.

One last glance to the south, and Elrond turned to smile greeting to his son. “You returned early. Where is your brother?”

“I left Elladan in the stables. I thought you would like to have this as soon as possible. Gildor brought it from Bree and we met him upon the road.” He held up a small folded square of cream paper, sealed with red wax.

Elrond accepted it, noting that it bore the stamp of the Shire post office, and was addressed in a firm hand to “Master Elrond, c/o the Prancing Pony, Bree”. The seal bore an acorn. “I see that Frodo's hand is much improved at least.”

Elrohir helped himself to a glass of ginger cordial, offering another to his father. “I assumed it was from him. Does he say anything of import? I understand that things are more settled in the Shire nowadays.”

Elrond took a sip, before sliding a finger beneath the flap of the envelope to crack the seal. For a few moments he studied the missive within, then set it aside to take up his glass once more. Elrohir raised a brow that so clearly echoed his father, that Elrond was forced to hold back a smile before offering, “He asks when I will be passing through the Shire.”

“He has made his decision, then?” Elrohir would not meet his father's gaze.

“It seems so. I had hoped that returning to the peace of his home would bring further healing, but he says it has not. He sees his only hope in the West.”

Still, Elrohir studied his half empty glass. “And have you decided? Will you sail this year?”

For some moments Elrond was silent, studying his son's face. “Your sister has conceived her first child this night. The line of Elendil continues.”

Now Elrohir looked up, his eyes filled with joy. “Will you stay, then, until the birth?”

Elrond shook his head, returning again to plumb the southern sky. “No. Arwen has now sealed her fate. She will remain here, to renew the mortal line of my brother and the kings of Numenor. I will join your mother in the lands of our people.”

“Do you see her future, then?” Elrohir looked to his father's hand, where Vilya was now worn openly upon his finger.

“Only dimly. Our paths diverge with every hour, and it is not given to me to know the fate of men.”

Elrohir stepped closer to touch his father's shoulder. “She is still your daughter, Adar. Will you not see her safely delivered?” 

Still Elrond looked to the southern horizon, and his son saw the shimmer of tears in soft grey eyes. “And will I stay for the next child, and the next? Perhaps you would have me stay to see her grand children and their children? No. I must leave now, or I will stay, as I have already stayed for these many generations of men. The time of the elves is ended and men must be free to make this land wholly their own.”

Elrohir turned away. “Let me know when you have written your letters. I will carry them myself, to Bree and to Minas Tirith.”

“There will be but one letter. I have already said my goodbyes to Arwen and I would not re-open that wound for her.” 

“I will visit my sister, nonetheless. I am yet half-elven,” Elrohir replied firmly, to his father's straight back.

Elrond's voice followed him into the room. “That is a decision you and your brother have yet to make. All I ask is that you are not be too hasty in your choice.”

His reply was the sound of a closing door.

END


	60. Power Calls To Power

B2MeM Prompt . . . The sound of running and falling water was loud, and the evening was filled with a faint scent of trees and flowers, as if summer still lingered in Elrond's gardens. (Fellowship of the Ring, “Many Meetings”) 

POWER CALLS TO POWER

I don't own the characters or main events in this scene. They all belong to JRR Tolkien, and this is only a fanish exploration.

-0-

Elrond removed the little dagger, in its bejewelled sheath, from a pocket deep within the layers of his robes. Opening the top drawer of his desk, he slipped it carefully beneath a pile of cut paper, before locking it away. Frodo Baggins was finally upon the road to recovery, and Elladan was seeing to the destruction of the shard of morgul blade. The dagger had not been required to prevent the Nine from becoming the Ten.

The elven healer rubbed at his temples, where an insidious headache lurked; a headache caused, not by the effort to remove the metal that Frodo had borne within his body, but rather by that metal which he wore upon his body. In the garden below blackbird heralded the dawn of a new day, and Elrond slipped quietly down the steps from his terrace, shunning the presence of others, to glide along a sheltered and little used path.

Before long the narrow grassy path was joined by a sparkling rill of clear water, the two running side by side for many yards, before parting at a stand of ancient willow trees. Pushing aside hanging branches, which had not yet shed autumn's yellow leaves, Elrond stepped into a living pavilion and settled himself upon the white marble bench at its peaceful heart.

Eyes closed, he inhaled deeply. Imladris rushed in to soothe, flooding his soul with the scents of rich, damp loam beneath his feet, the almost cloying sweetness of a bracket fungus in the branches above, and a distant mingled perfume, from the last of the summer roses within Celebrian's walled garden. Beyond trailing branches the rill trickled merrily, and he could feel the rumble of distant waterfalls within the very fibres of his body. On occasion beyond numbering, this bower had been his refuge from the cares of being Loremaster, Healer, Lord of Imladris, and Ringbearer. 

Elrond winced as the headache resisted his best efforts to push it away. With a sigh he opened eyes that had seen too much over too many years, grateful for the dimness within the thick golden curtain of leaves. The colour drew him in, echo of that which he remembered from long ago, and of that which he had seen again, resting on its silver chain against the pale flesh of Frodo's small chest. 

During his long hours at the little one's bedside Elrond had tried to build walls within his mind, to baffle the calling of the One. But with each passing hour those walls had weakened and even now, with some distance, he could still hear the insidious whispers. His thumb found the band of Vilya about his finger, then slid away. To use Vilya's aid would be to declare it's presence and that he could not do, with Sauron's ring so close. Many suspected but, as yet, few knew for certain that one of the three untouched elven rings resided within this valley.

Mithrandir knew. He had almost pushed Elrond from the room in his son's wake, as soon as Frodo's wound was bandaged. No doubt, he too heard the murmurs, although a Maiar would perhaps have more resistance to its enticements than a mere elf. Elrond hoped that was the case, for Mithrandir now sat alone with Frodo and the One. Even the little gardener had been sent away at the last, although he seemed blissfully unaware of the true nature of the evil that his master carried.

'Why would Mithrandir be more resistant to it?' Elrond mused. The One called to those seeking power, as power always called to power, and perhaps that was rightly so. Elrond stirred uneasily upon the bench. Should he return, lock the One away in some safe place until it's final disposition could be discussed? Who would be equal to that discussion? The White Council? Perhaps it was a matter for discussion only with the bearers of the three rings. After all, they were best placed to understand the nature of a ring of power. Should Mithrandir have any say? He bore a ring, yes, but as a messenger of the Valar he was not even of Middle earth. Galadriel was locked within her own destiny and remained only because she must. That left only Elrond. 

He blinked as the air began to take on a blue hue, and looked down to discover Vilya glowing softly. Clasping his be-ringed hand within the palm of his other, Elrond concentrated, calming his wildly spinning thoughts until he felt that the walls of his will were sufficiently robust, and the glow had faded. He held his breath, listening, waiting for the whispers to grow louder; waiting for some sign that he had given himself away, and let out his breath when he detected nothing beyond the underlying murmurs. How easy it had been to let go, and how quickly the One had slipped beneath his defences. The disposition of Sauron's ring was too much for one person to determine. 

Yet, still the One murmured. Elrond had power enough to heal and rule a valley. How much more healing could he bring with the power of the One? Why limit his sphere of influence to just one valley?

Elves had nurtured and maintained this Middle earth for three ages, but the men of Numenor had failed within but one. Illuvatar had sung both races into being with his own breath, and yet surely He could see that Man had not lived up to expectation. There were those who could argue that Elrond had some claim even to the throne of Gondor, for was he not also a scion of the house of Earendil? No doubt Elros would approve of the rebuilding of their line, through his brother.

Elrond had already seen Sauron upon the field of battle, and with the One upon his hand, he would surely be at least an equal to what remained of the Ring Maker. With Sauron banished to his deepest dungeon Elrond could bring together elves and men at last. The land could be remade, better than before, beneath his benign rule. He would not use might, but reason, to change the minds of any who objected. They would soon acknowledge the error of their thoughts, to settle peacefully within his lands. In a thousand years, when Middle earth was rebuilt to his liking, Elrond would gather his children and carry the ring into the West, where there was more healing to be wrought. The mortal Aragorn would be long dead and there would be no need for Arwen to marry him, so she would sail with her father and brothers, to be reunited with her mother. 

No need? Once more Elrond blinked, clutching hands tightly in his lap. There was indeed no need for Arwen to marry, but love was not need. Arwen wished to bind herself to Aragorn, not through a need to rejoin their two houses, but because she loved him and he, her. That thought, of all others, cut through the miasma that swirled within his mind. Was Elrond's acquisition of power more important than the love of Arwen and Aragorn? 

Looking down at his hands Elrond's gaze was drawn, not to Vilya, but to a simple gold wedding band. Was the acquisition of power worth postponing, for so long, his own reconciliation with Celebrian? Could power replace love? Surely wielding so much power would change him. By the time he reached that farther shore would he be the same Elrond that Celebrian had married? Would she still love this new Elrond? A tiny thought dropped into the waiting pool of his mind. 

With the One Ring, he could make her.

Bile arose and, turning aside, he expelled the bitter contents of his stomach, before staggering across the bower to push through entangling golden veils, and fall upon his knees at the tiny rill. There he rinsed his mouth before splashing the icy water upon his face.

Mithrandir had hinted that perhaps the One could be hidden in Imladris for a time. Elrond knew now, that it would not be safe here. It must be utterly destroyed.

END


	61. The Last Ringbearer

Sailing West – B2MeM prompt 12/3/18

I don't own nothin'! It was all birthed in the amazing imagination of JRR Tolkien and I am just borrowing a corner.

THE LAST RINGBEARER

At least this ship's bigger than those boats we had to row down the Anduin and I can stretch these old legs. This sea air ain't doin' my arthritis no good, but that ointment the healer gave me helps a bit. 

It's funny, seeing elves again. After Mister Frodo left I went a few times to the Woody End to talk with them, but then there just weren't no time. There was the bairns to raise, and then they made me Mayor. Not that I wanted to be Mayor, but somebody had to do it and, if there's one thing that journey did, it showed me that it's dangerous to sit back and ignore things. My Gaffer weren't too pleased. He said “Folk that stick their necks out is more likely to get their heads chopped off.” He had a point, but if Mister Frodo hadn't done it, where would we be now? After he left I tried to live life as he would have liked. 

I wonder if Frodo's still alive. I hope so, though I don't suppose Mister Bilbo is still around. I wonder if Frodo's been lonely without him. That's one of the reasons I've come. I don't like to think of Frodo on his own, after all he's been through. He was right to make me stay, though it pains me to admit it. I found all the healing I needed in my faunts, but my children don't need their Da any more, and Bag End reminds me too much of my Rosie. I miss her somethin' fierce.

I weren't sure the offer to sail West still held after all this time, but when I got to the crossroads it was like they'd been waitin'. The elves met me just beyond the far borders of the Westmarch, in the shadow of the elf towers. It's funny how things change. Once upon a time I'd never even seen the towers from a distance. Now half my family's dug in around them. I'll never see family nor towers again. Did I do right, comin' along?

I reckon if it weren't for the company I was keepin', Master Cirdan wouldn't have let me past the gates to the Havens. Elves who stay put in their own lands don't get to see us ordinary folk grow old. Oh, elves get old, I know that. But their bodies don't change, just their eyes. When we rode up to the gates Master Cirdan looked long and hard at me, and I wanted to check that I'd brushed my foot hair. Then he just smiled and said, “Welcome at last, Master Gamgee. The ship is waiting.” He's an elf of few words, is Master Cirdan. Maybe the older they get, the less they have to say. 

Can't say I've noticed the same in the Shire. Old Daffy Brockbank don't stop talking from the moment she gets up to the moment she goes to bed. I reckon she probably talks in her sleep too. Not that anythin' she says is worth the listenin'. My Rosie now, she was a quiet one most of the time; not that she couldn't speak up when it was needed. But my favourite times with Rosie were snuggling abed in the morning, before the youngsters were up and about, or sitting in front of the parlour fire of an evenin'; her with her mendin' and me with my pipe. Oh now, there I go crying again, and I promised myself I wouldn't do that.

“Are you still in pain, Master Gamgee?” These elves is kind enough but I reckon most of them don't know what to do with an old crock like me.

“No, thank you kindly for asking. It's just the wind in my eyes.” He don't look convinced, but I'll give elves their due, they know when to leave a body alone.

I wonder how long we'll be on this boat . . . no, its a ship. Master Cirdan was very firm on that. Seems sailors get a bit uppity about you calling a ship a boat. The captain says we've food and water for five days but he don't know when we'll reach the West because, “The West is not truly in the west.” What's that word Mister Bilbo used to use about elves? Enigmatic. That's it.

We've been aboard a few days now. If nobody's ever sailed back from the West how do they know that the other ships ever got there? Maybe they fell off the end of the world or got drowned in some big storm or something. Maybe they all starved to death because they ran out of food. There's a nasty fate for a hobbit if ever there was one. What if there's no West at all and it's all just wishful thinkin'?

Stop it, Samwise Gamgee! Elves don't get to be so old without picking up a bit of sense along the way. The West was there when they left it, so it'll be there when they come back. You can't go losing half a world now, can you? Maybe that's what they mean when they say that the West isn't in the west. Oh, I don't know. It hurts my head just thinking about it.

Leastwise these folk don't seem too worried. In fact most of them seem quite pleased. I hope some of those that's remained decide to stay on in Middle earth. It makes me sad to think that, someday soon, folk there will never meet an elf; that one day elves will just be fairy stories for bairns. That don't bear thinking about and I hope somebody's written down all the tales of their doin's. Mister Bilbo was right to put down his, and I'm glad the King got Mister Frodo to write our journey too. Although I know the writin' of it pained him.

Now what's the matter? Why's everyone going to the front of the boat . . . er . . . ship?   
Oh.   
Oh my.   
We've arrived.  
And we didn't run out of food.

END


	62. Ada

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estel remembers his Ada.

(Elrond and all the other characters belong to JRR Tokien. I'm only borrowing them for a moment to write this fanfic.)

ADA

Estel's foster father had two studies. The first was large, with many upright chairs, it's walls adorned with ancient banners, armour and the shield of the Herald of Gilgalad in one corner, and the seal of the house of Earendil, painted large, upon the wall behind a broad and imposing desk. Here, delegations were met and agreements signed, along with all manner of other formal business.

There was another study, but only those invited by Elrond saw this chamber. It, too, was large but contained a scatter of comfortably cushioned chairs. The walls were lined with book cases and hung with family portraits, and the desk was piled with open books and half finished transcriptions. One wall consisted only of floor to ceiling windows, leading out onto a terrace, which overlooked the Lady Celebrian's walled garden. A long chaise was placed before the windows, and the son of Earendil was often to be found sitting there in the evenings,watching the stars.

In winter a fire was lit in the large hearth, but in summer a beautiful ancient vase was filled with apricot roses, that scented the room with their clove perfume. Elrond said they were his lady's favourite rose. The Lady Celebrian's face smiled down from a small canvas above the mantle, painted by Elladan for his father, upon the first anniversary of her departure to the West. Estel had known that something very sad had happened to make her leave, but his foster father and brothers never spoke of it while the boy was still young. 

When he was old enough to explore the vast house alone, Estel had discovered Elrond's private study. As soon as he spotted the child at the open door, Elrond smiled and beckoned him in. The youngster had been lifted into his Ada's lap. “Tell me of your day, Estel.”

There was one thing that made Adar's study very special. In a corner behind the desk, on a stand upon a small table, sat a beautiful lap harp. Its pale wood was carved with flowers that grew only in the West, their petals edged with silver, and Estel spent more than one agreeable winter afternoon listening to Elrond describe their habit and scent. The fine strings glistened like rain caught in a sunbeam. 

Once, when a five year old Estel had been unfortunate enough to witness the death of a sparrow, Elrond had helped him bury the tiny corpse and then brought him back to this room. There, they had settled side by side upon the chaise and Elrond had taken the harp in his lap. Long and elegantly nimble fingers had plucked, and music floated upon the air like thistledown on a summer breeze, as Elrond's rich baritone wove its own magic. Nestling into his Adar's side, Estel had floated beyond the window and out over the valley, had swooped and dived with swifts, drifted upon the silent wings of a barn owl at dusk, circled high mountain peaks upon an eagle's back, sailed serene upon the lake with a swan and soared above a vast blue ocean on the broad wings of a grey gull. 

From that moment, whenever Estel was troubled, he would make his way to Elrond's study. There, whether or not Ada was present, he would find peace. 

Elessar looked about his own private study with some satisfaction. Arwen sat reading, in a chair beside the embers of the fire, their son cradled in the circle of one arm. Above her, on the wall, was a gift from her brother. Elladan could have chosen to paint his father in any setting, but he had settled upon a quiet scene within Elrond's private study. There, Adar sat in twilight, harp in hand and a soft smile upon his lips. 

Estel hoped that one day his own son would remember him as fondly.

END


	63. Reborn

I don't own the people or events. They were all conceived by JRR Tolkien. I only birthed a fanfic.

REBORN

The birth had been unremarkable, from a physicians perspective. Of course, Elrond was both physician and doting father upon this occasion, so he could be forgiven for believing that there was nothing unremarkable about his new daughter. For some minutes, after making Celebrian comfortable, he sat by her side, looking into the blue, blue eyes of their child. 

“I wonder whether her eyes will remain blue, or whether she will take after you. She has your hair, after all.” Celebrian smiled up at her husband.

Elrond reached out to touch his daughter's palm, grinning when tiny fingers gripped hard upon his. “I care not whether she has dark hair or fair, blue eyes or grey. She is perfect.”

At a whisper beyond the door Celebrian looked up. “I think we have kept the rest of the family waiting long enough. Go and let them in.”

Before Elrond could arise from the bed, however, the door swung open to reveal beaming grandparents and two hesitant older brothers. “No need to get up,” Celeborn assured his marriage son, as he stepped to the bedside to kiss his daughter and smile down at his third grandchild.

Elrohir and Elladan were a little more hesitant, despite having recently entered their majority, and it was Galadriel who shepherded them forward. “Come and greet your new sister.” She allowed the brothers time to admire, then could wait no longer, slipping in to kiss her daughter's brow.

“Have you named her?” asked Elladan.

“We thought . . .” Elrond began, intending to gift his daughter with the name he and Celebrian had finally agreed upon.

“Arwen,” Celeborn interjected, firmly.

Elrond blinked in surprise, for neither grandparent had been involved in the discussions regarding the child's name. Glancing at his wife's face he noticed that Celebrian looked not at their daughter, but at her parents. When nobody spoke Elrond tried to coax more information. “Noble maiden?” he asked. “I love her dearly but nobility is surely something more relevant to mortal kind?” 

“She favours her greatly,” Celeborn noted cryptically.

“Strange that such a likeness should be born again in this way, so many generations removed,” Galadriel mused.

It was clear that the couple were holding some internal conversation to which Elrond was not privy. By now a little annoyed, Elrond cleared his throat in an attempt to make himself visible to these ancient personages. Galadriel gave him the sort of kindly smile that made him want to suck his thumb and climb back into his cradle. 

“Luthien,” she announced, as though that explained all. 

Elrond took a moment to process this information. “She looks like Luthien?”

Celebrian reached for his hand, her eyes filled with tears. “Will her fate be the same, do you think? And will that be blessing or curse?”

“Whatever her name, she will be our daughter. Fate may decide all else but that.” 

END


	64. Squatters Rights

20 March 2018 Prompt B2MeM :- Noldolantë, 

I don't own anyone or anything, other than Faerwen. The rest belongs to JRR Tolkien and this is fanfic.

SQUATTERS RIGHTS.

“I am certain it was in this section, somewhere.” Erestor moved the ladder along a few feet and climbed to the level of the top shelf, to rummage there among heaps of dusty scrolls.

Faerwen sneezed, as her husband's actions released a shower of dust upon her head. “When were those last dusted?”

Erestor cast her a rueful glance. “Not recently enough, it seems.”

“Why does Lord Elrond want it, anyway? He, of all of us, should know it by heart.”

Erestor brushed an errant spider off his sleeve before frowning down at his wife. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, wasn't he raised by Maglor for a time?” Faerwen nodded toward Erstor's sleeve, where the spider had reappeared. Erestor flicked it and the lady hopped aside as the hapless creature sailed past her shoulder, to land upon the tiles at her feet. The spider, after taking a moment to gather it's scattered wits, scuttled away to the dark safety of the underside of another bookcase.

“He was. It was Maglor who taught him how to play the harp.”

“I hardly thought it was Gilgalad,” Faerwen offered a little acerbically. She was, after all, unused to having spiders flung at her by anyone, least of all the love of her life.

Erestor was either oblivious to her ire or chose to appear so. “Gilgalad was too busy teaching him to 'play' the sword.” He climbed down and laid the scroll upon a nearby desk. “We had better check that this is the one with the musical annotations.”

Faerwen paused to roll up her sleeves before laying hands upon it. Who knew what residents it may still contain?

Upon the outside, along the length of the scroll, could be discerned the title, “The Noldolantë”. Beneath was the subtitle, “The Fall Of The Noldor. A Lament by Maglor”.

As Erestor released the clasp Faerwen plucked up her courage to help him carefully unroll the ancient document. Once past the first few inches, the interior was clean and crisp. The hand was clearly Elrond's. Faerwen bent to examine the words of the first stanza, wrinkling her nose. “Cheerful,” was her only comment.

“The Sons of Feanor are not much known for their cheerful disposition,” Erestor noted, a little mournfully.

“When Lord Elrond has finished with this I can make a cover for it, before we return it to the care of the local arachnid population,” Faerwen observed as she helped her husband re-roll the ancient document.

Erestor snorted. “I and a few companions will be evicting the arachnid population er long.” He bent to shout beneath the lowest shelf of the bookcase, where the hapless spider had thought to take refuge. “Notice is hereby served!” 

If the spider heard him it made no reply. Faerwen decided that if she was to be included in the list of companions tasked with bookshelf cleaning, she would be wearing trews, boots and headscarf . . . just in case the spider and his relatives decided to defend their squatters rights.

END


End file.
